


One Green Leaf

by TAFKAB



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aggravating damn elf, Angst, Aragorn is a ho, Bearded Dwarf Women, Camels spit at everyone but elves, Dwarf Courting, Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), F/M, Immortal Angst, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multi, Never go climbing with ropes from Rohan, No seriously I got the whole setting from Hidalgo, Sand Gets Everywhere, Sandstorm - Freeform, Spelunking, Stubborn damn dwarf, dwarf-in-a-barrel, ridiculous argument, stereotypical pseudo-Muslim culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 02:14:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5767399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an ill-judged encounter leads too quickly to intimacy, Legolas and Gimli's friendship is badly damaged.  Ten years later, when King Elessar decides to visit the Southrons and sue for peace, he asks his lieutenants to journey deep into the desert with him to parley-- or fight, if they must.  Legolas and Gimli, leaders among the friends of Gondor, must set aside their hurts and come together to serve their king.  Can they rebuild their trust and repair their friendship, or dare to hope for more?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Minas Tirith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas and Gimli plan an expedition. (Slight AU in that either they visit Aglarond twice together, or they do not go with the rest of the Fellowship)

Legolas the elf, son of Thranduil, sought his companion Gimli son of Gloin through the streets of Minas Tirith, frustrating the hopes of barkeepers as he entered their common rooms only to leave again without ordering a drink. Gimli was nowhere to be found. 

He kept searching nonetheless, enjoying his tour of the city. Much of the rubble of war had already been cleared out of the upper tiers, and the night was pleasant, with stars sparkling in the sky over Mindolluin. At last he found himself within the lowest ring, which had held the dwellings and shops and taverns of the least wealthy. This level needed the most rebuilding. Most of its wooden trappings and its courtyard gardens had burned in the siege. Gimli and his band of dwarves from Erebor had pronounced several of the remaining stone structures too badly damaged to remain standing. The dwarf had promised Aragorn his kin would help rebuild them; the king had given his consent. Now the buildings that still stood were being dismantled and the stone cleaned and pared so it could be used anew.

Only a few structures remained usable near the Gate, including a hostel that had once been a guardhouse. Its solid stone face had turned away the flames ravaging the lower city, and it had shielded a few other buildings tucked in its shadow, clustered against the flank of Mindolluin. After the long workday, it was filled with patrons. Shouting and song rang from its walls, echoing eerily among twisted beams and toppled roofs that had yet to be cleared. 

Stone dust and ash stirred by the workers hung thick in the air, masking the faint lingering reek of battle from the Pelennor-- a scent, perhaps, that only an elf's nose could discover now that summer had come and gone, leaving new grass, and now that the trenches where the dead orcs had been tossed were burned and filled with earth.

The road was thick with debris that crunched under even Legolas' light tread, soiling his boots. Though there was no more threat of war, he missed the weight of his quiver on his shoulder, and he still carried his knives. There might be no brigands in the city, but Legolas had known war for so long that to go unarmed seemed strange to him.

The door of the tavern yielded to his fingertips, and the smoke of pipeweed stung his nostrils as he slipped inside. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim light of guttered lamps, flames gleaming dim orange through their smoke-blackened chimneys. He was already confident he had found what he sought.

Dice clattered on a low table in the center of the room. "Yes!" A triumphant roar and a jingle of coins brought a small curl of amusement to his lip. Gimli the dwarf raked in his winnings, unaware of Legolas as yet. 

Triumphant, Gimli took a deep swig from his mug of ale, amber droplets spilling over his beard. "I have won my losses back, and more besides! That will teach you to gamble with a dwarf!" The company assembled included several dwarves and many men; Gimli's opponents were mostly soldiers turned stonemasons. One tall man was even clad in black and silver armor: a Guard of the Citadel. An unusual sight, so far down toward the city gates. 

A passing maid bent to refill the dwarf's empty mug, and one of the masons caught her waist, tumbling her onto his lap. She laughed, squirming, but made no serious effort to free herself. Her disorderly hair was woven in a loose braid. The laces of her bodice dangled, half-undone, and her breasts seemed likely to escape their confinement at any moment and tumble free. But those things did not interest Legolas; his gaze was fixed on her face. She was not looking at the man who held her, but next to him at Gimli. Her eyes sparkled. Legolas settled in to watch, finding himself strangely interested in the final outcome.

"There now, I've spilled half this pitcher of ale," she cried.

"A worse crime this dwarf cannot imagine!" Gimli reached and took the pitcher with both hands, upending it into his mouth. Half its contents trickled over his beard. Legolas chuckled in spite of himself and leaned against the doorpost, waiting.

"I've naught more to gamble for," the mason grasped the barmaid's waist and shook her, "So I set this maid as my stakes!"

"And what might I have to put on the table to match her value?" Gimli returned, gallant. "Not all the coins we've exchanged between us since the king re-entered the city would buy a hair from her head!" He flipped the barmaid a silver piece to pay for the ale. 

She preened, tucking wisps of stray hair behind her ear, but Legolas noted she did not adjust her wayward clothing-- other than worsening the siege upon her imperiled laces by leaning forward. Legolas judged she was eager to be won, but Gimli tugged shut the drawstrings of his pouch and tied them inside his belt. "Nay, I must be away. You will forgive me if I leave while I still have coin in my purse!" He chortled and patted it.

The barmaid pouted; this time her effort to rise was determined enough she escaped the man who held her. She simpered at Gimli, taking the empty pitcher. Then her eye caught on Legolas, and she blinked, hastily smoothing her apron and turning to him, the dwarf forgotten.

"May I serve you, good elf?" She hurried forward. Legolas shook his head, but she hovered at his side, undeterred. 

"I've come for my companion," he spoke softly. She curtsied, full lips pouting her disappointment. Gimli nodded to Legolas, stepped around her, and pushed through the door. He was steady on his feet despite the ale. Legolas followed him out into the relatively fresh air. 

"You might have stayed to increase your winnings," he said easily. "There are hours yet before dawn."

"You might have joined the game." Gimli bore tools of his trade rather than weapons, a stout hammer and chisel tucked into his belt. "None of the men could beat you; you'd win easily enough."

"But I have brought no coin," Legolas returned. "What use would I have for such with waybread in my pouch, and the rain to wash it down? What stakes would I bring to the table?"

Gimli laughed aloud. "The fall of dice may award more than coin, as you have seen!"

Legolas shrugged. "Ah, my friend, but if that is the stake, I would not take it from the players who would appreciate their winnings more than I." 

Gimli shrugged, somewhat sobered. "And I would leave the game no matter what I tossed, for I have no interest in tavern maids." He squared his shoulders and adjusted his axe. "Doubtless we have business to be about ourselves, more pressing than gambling or comely wenches."

"Do we?" Legolas asked lightly, watching Gimli closely. "Why not spend the night in that maid's arms? She seemed willing, and pretty enough."

Gimli cleared his throat, an uncomfortable basso rumble. "I have not seen you share your bed with a maid of Gondor, elf! Why should I choose from your leavings?"

Legolas raised a brow, wounded by Gimli's jealous tone. "Leavings?"

Gimli shot him a sidelong look, shamefaced. "Pay me no mind. It is the ale, and I would be wise to be silent until my head has cleared." 

He stumped onward, changing the subject. "I grow tired of this city, elf. Our kin do not need us here; they have spent their lives in the placement of trees and stone." He hitched up his belt. "I have spoken to Aragorn, and he is pleased with the work. The gates are complete; I have spent long in their forging and longer in their hanging. I am weary, Legolas."

"I too have spent long hours at work in planning and planting the gardens of the citadel, that the White Tree will thrive," Legolas agreed. "Yet I would say that I am less weary than...." he hesitated, and his face turned, involuntarily, towards the sea. "The war has been long, Gimli. For many lives of men and dwarves the elves have fought. I feel almost as though I have no place or purpose now that it is over. My bow has fit well in my hand for many years. I do not regret laying it aside, and yet...." 

"You speak the thought of my heart." Gimli slapped the hammer in his belt. "We must make a place for ourselves now that our place is no more. I have promised Eomer as well as Aragorn."

"Aglarond and the Glittering Caves," Legolas nodded. "You will lead dwarves to settle there?"

"I will. Dain's death has left the dwarves of Erebor torn," Gimli confessed. "Some would not sit in the Lonely Mountain and let men take the world. There are fortunes to be made, and they would make them. We would enjoy the peace that our axes have helped bring. I have promised my kin...." he trailed away in thought, tugging at his braided beard.

"A new realm to conquer?"

"And new works to build, to rival those of old." Gimli nodded firmly. "The men of the east will not lay down their arms and accept Aragorn's kingship gladly. Both Gondor and Rohan will need armor and swords of dwarven make, I think. They will need us close at hand."

"As do I," Legolas nodded, and Gimli's eyes flashed up at him, unreadable. They strode onwards together for a time in silence. 

Legolas finally spoke. "I too would build anew. The scars Sauron left on Middle Earth have wounded my heart. It will be long before Mordor can be made wholesome, but my kin and I will make a start in Ithilien, for the love of the Lord Aragorn-- and to make a place of beauty for elves to pause and rest their weary hearts on the long, sad journey to the sea." Legolas looked away from Gimli's questioning gaze. They had not often spoken of his message from Galadriel, but he could not deny the sea-longing had taken its toll on his heart.

"Come with me first to Rohan," Gimli blurted at length, and Legolas looked down upon him with surprise. "I have promised my kin the caves, and yet I hardly know where to begin our works there. We were given time to see only a few of the great halls! Come with me, Legolas, and we will map the caves, and together we will make plans to build such splendors as have not been possible since Narvi and Celebrimbor worked together of old."

Legolas felt his heart grow light as a burden he had not known left him. "One of your own kin might be of more use, but I will come. When shall we go?"

"Tonight, if you will!" Gimli lifted his chin, beard bristling with triumph. "The moon is nearly full, and your eyes will guide us across the plains."

Legolas laughed softly. "Do you have provisions ready?"

"Enough for half a dozen dwarves. Come! You have Arod, do you not? We will ride together and make haste." Gimli hurried his pace, and Legolas followed him, smiling.

Gimli was as good as his word, with saddlebags packed full of provisions waiting in his rooms and a packhorse ready in the king's stable. Legolas helped place the bundles on the beast's back. At last they were ready, and they went to Legolas's lodging, leaving word there for their kin and for Aragorn.

"How long have you planned this trip?" Legolas asked when stable boys had hoisted Gimli astride Arod, and he had leaped up lightly and settled himself with Gimli's hands at his waist.

"Since the Battle of Helm's Deep," Gimli grunted satisfaction as they clattered out into the lantern-lit courtyard. 

Legolas nodded. "And how long have you waited to ask me to accompany you?"

That proved less easy to answer; Gimli grunted and made no response. Legolas laid his hand on Arod's neck and spoke softly. The noise of their horses’ hooves was the only sound that disturbed the city's quiet until they reached the gates and the guards let them out. Gimli made a sound of quiet satisfaction as the heavy gates swung smoothly and silently on their pivots.

"Though they are well-forged and strong, I hope it will be long before they are tested," Legolas spoke, turning his head to watch them close again. 

"Aye." Gimli's voice was gruff with pride.

They rode for some time in silence and passed through the Rammas Echor at the Forannest. Legolas began to sing softly in his own tongue, still light of heart, feeling Gimli nod against his back. It made a warm shiver travel through him, and he tilted his head back to gaze up at the stars. "Earendil sails low in the west," he murmured, and a soft snore answered him.

"Walk lightly, Arod," Legolas murmured, combing the horse's mane with his fingers. "You would not let a rider fall."

They rode westward till dawn. Gimli nodded as they went, until Legolas reached back and drew his arms around his own waist, holding him safe. At last, as the sun's rim crested the mountains. A cock crowed from a farmstead, and Gimli tensed, shaking off sleep. His arms tightened around Legolas. 

"You should have wakened me, elf!" Gimli freed an arm to rub his eyes.

"We are a third of the way to Edoras, or better," Legolas surveyed the mountain range on their left. "And the horses were fresh. We will rest in the afternoon, when it is warmest, and ride on tonight."

Gimli agreed, and later Legolas watched over him as he slept again and the horses grazed on the lush grasses of Rohan.

So their journey passed, with only a brief pause at Edoras to speak with King Eomer. He was as eager for the dwarves to proceed with their project as Gimli had foreseen. Eomer supplied them with ropes and torches and other tools for traversing the caves. They set out from the storehouses and traveled to Helm's Deep, where they were allowed to pass inside the mountain. Sun and moon rose and set unseen as the two companions worked their way into the caverns, climbing deeper and deeper, marveling at the heart of the mountain-- until without warning, fate found them.


	2. Aglarond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Legolas is disturbed by the implications of mortality.

Darkness wrapped close around Gimli like a blanket, thick and perfectly still but for the echoing plink of droplets in faraway pools. It did not unsettle him, nor would it have troubled any dwarf. The subtle motion of air, the quality of the echoes... he could read them as easily as Legolas could stand on a hill and see the land for leagues around, by day or under starlight. The quiet of the caves around his ears spoke to him of safety; not even dust sifted free to tickle his nostrils. The solid stone bore him up with sturdy grace.

It was not the same for his companion. Legolas lay restless at his side, and his movements disturbed the quiet as he shifted, seeking comfort. At last Gimli sat up, and Legolas joined him. "I am as unhappy as a dwarf in a tree," the elf confessed, his voice spreading out into the quiet like the ripples in a pool.

"You squirm like a hobbit," Gimli confirmed, laughing softly. 

"Light would be a welcome sight," Legolas commented, and Gimli could all but see him lifting his chin to seek in vain for the cavern's ceiling.

"So it would, if the rope had not broken and dropped us into a pool." Gimli laced his stubby fingers behind his head. "The cord fell victim to your acrobatics, elf!"

"Perhaps, but it was your weight that severed the last threads." Legolas sounded amused, and that was a good sign. Gimli had known some beings to lose their wits after lightless days in the earth's heart. He would not have accused Legolas of being one to fear-- even Moria had left the elf wary but calm, at least until the balrog came-- but there could be no doubt his companion had grown uneasy and did not care for the long dark.

"It was my skill that found the packs again, dark though it was!" Gimli answered him. Both knew he owed a great debt to Legolas's strength and alertness; the elf had hauled Gimli choking and spluttering from the pool into which they fell. The water had been deep and he might have drowned, unable to swim thanks to his heavy ring-mail.

"If the rope had been woven of hithlain, it would not have broken."

"It was man-rope," Gimli agreed. "We should not have trusted ourselves to it." They sat quiet for a moment, then Gimli rummaged in his pack. "Still, we have only a few hours' march yet before I judge we will emerge in Helm's Deep. Then you may have all the light you wish, and more." He brought out provisions-- the salt meat was wet but edible, though all their bread had been spoiled. 

Legolas's hand was cool when their fingers touched as Gimli handed him food. He frowned; he had not thought elves sensitive to chill. "Legolas, you are cold."

"It is nothing." Legolas withdrew his hand.

Gimli growled and reached for him. "None of that, elf." He clasped Legolas's hand and chafed it between his own. "I did not think elves felt the chill."

"We do not, under star and sky. But in this place...." Legolas laughed, passing off his unease. "I would be glad of a light."

"I will find you some," Gimli vowed. "I too would be glad of light; dwarves were born with eyes, and were not made to be blind moles nosing the stony cave floor to find what unseen things we may."

He could all but hear Legolas's smile, and he took the moment to move closer, his meat near forgotten. "We have been heading downward, as I am sure you know. This cavern was water-cut, and the floor is worn smooth. We will find the Deeping Stream, and possibly it will have carried wood below the earth and left it to dry in its course. If this is so, we may have a fire before we follow the waters out."

Legolas shifted close to him, a thing he would not have done aboveground, and Gimli smiled into the darkness, feeling his friend's shoulder press against him. They ate in companionable silence for a time, then Gimli wiped his lips on his sleeve. "Are you ready to march, my friend?"

"I am." A rustle revealed Legolas stowing his belongings as Gimli packed his own. Finishing, they set forth together. Gimli felt the stone before them with the shaft of his axe, aware always that crevices might appear in solid rock when least expected. Legolas followed him, waving one hand before his face to ward off stalactites, his other hand resting on Gimli's shoulder.

After a few minutes, Gimli began to sing softly in Khuzdul, enjoying the low roll of his voice returning to greet him from the boundaries of the chamber, as it should, giving him a sense of the size of the place. It lifted his heart and saddened it at once; there should be other voices to answer and join his.

"What do you sing?" 

Gimli blinked at Legolas's soft question. "A song of Durin. The song tells of the bride price he crafted to win the hand of his bed-companion."

"Bride price?" Legolas seemed torn between astonishment and laughter. 

"Olaug was a fine smith," Gimli explained. "Her father demanded fine-carved jewels set in mithril as the price of her hand. But even then, she would not consent to wed Durin until he bettered her at stonecraft."

"And what manner of stonecraft might it take to win a dwarf-maid?"

"Legend has it that before they shared a bed, their rivalry led them to hew much of the wondrous stonework of Khazad-Dum!" Gimli's good humor waned when Legolas did not respond. "I should not have spoken that name."

"No; it is well." All the same Legolas seemed to press more closely against his back. "And yet, you remind me that not all evil creatures perished in the rout of Mordor. Such places as these-- and Moria-- make fine havens for creatures that do not wish to be seen and those that do not need light to see."

"I will not return to Moria, nor will any dwarf of Erebor, though Gandalf himself cast down Durin's Bane." Gimli spoke soberly, perceiving his companion's thought. "These caves are wholesome, and they shall not be dark for long. I am certain, Legolas, to make a realm here. I will bring such of my kin as wish to come, and we will fortify Helm's Deep anew, if Eomer will let us. With his leave, we will tend the flowering groves of stone."

"As I will bring my kind to Ithilien, and make it flower anew." Legolas paused. "Gimli, say these are not idle words!"

Gimli blinked in darkness; he had never doubted either his word or the elf's. "Dain is dead. None will dispute our coming here, and Eomer will be glad to have allies at hand."

Legolas paused for a time, his voice light when he spoke again. "When you are here, will you hew the stones to win the hand of a dwarf-maid?"

Gimli did not answer for many steps as they walked together in darkness. "When you have led your kin to Ithilien, will you wed a fair elf-maiden with the light of the sun woven in her hair, and starlight in her eyes?"

Legolas fell silent in turn, and they fared forward until the cavern narrowed and the ceiling grew lower. Then they went on, following the soft trickle of a stream that echoed through the dim. Legolas bent his head and followed Gimli still.

They worked their way towards the sound of flowing water until Legolas was forced to bend nearly double. Still the roof sank. 

"Gimli, we must find another way," Legolas spoke, his voice eerily hollow. "We cannot walk much farther along the stream if the ceiling lowers to meet the floor."

"We will not have to stoop for much longer," Gimli mused, his tone absent. "I can smell the out-of-doors-- do you smell it, Legolas?" The air stirred in a fresh, steady current, pouring over their faces and ruffling their hair. "There is a way out nearby, but we may have to crawl and squirm, or even swim, to find it." Gimli tapped his axe against the stone to hear it sing. 

"What if this way is too small for us to pass through?"

"Then if I cannot widen it, we will re-trace our steps and find another." Gimli sounded confident. "At worst, Eomer's men know we are within, and they will soon begin to search for us."

"You are no fool, Gimli," Legolas answered soberly. "We are abroad in trackless caves without map or light. What hope is there that we may find our way out? Much less hope than in a trackless forest, with no skill to scout a path."

"We have food and water, and I can find my way," Gimli responded stubbornly. "Do not fear."

"Little food, for even waybread does not dry," Legolas returned. "Will we hunt cave fish and gnaw them like Gollum?" His laughter sounded faintly hollow, troubled.

"You are not yourself, Legolas," Gimli frowned. His axe haft splashed in water, and he halted. "Have you lost faith in me?" He knelt on the stone. Legolas's hands did not leave him. "I will wade to see how deep and swift this stream may be, and find its passage."

Legolas's hands clutched tight on his shoulders. "What will you do should you slip and be swept away?"

"I will tie the rope about my waist."

"And if it frays again?"

Gimli sat down with a patient sigh. "Then what would you have us do?"

"We should go together," Legolas said at length, his voice uncertain.

Gimli considered. "Then we must both be tied fast to an anchor, and we have only one rope, which will decrease our reach."

"Perhaps we will not need the reach," Legolas ventured, hopeful.

"We shall see. The water sounds shallow, but it is swift." Gimli shrugged out of his mail shirt and reached to the ties of his leather tunic, beginning to peel it from his shoulders. "We will bind our packs in oilcloth and carry them over our heads." He folded his jerkin and bundled it in his pack, then stripped away the rest of his gear, one piece at a time, taking care to lose none of it in the darkness.

After a moment Legolas followed suit. What they wore was still damp from their previous ducking, but even that was warmer than wearing their garments dripping wet. 

Gimli took their coil of rope-- already shortened-- and measured it between his arms, shaking his head. "If we are both tied, we will not get far with this. We must go further towards the cave wall before we tie the rope and enter the stream." He lashed his pack to his belt and fumbled for Legolas's hand to give him a thong to do the same. "Keep out your belt and tie your pack to it."

Legolas obeyed as Gimli rose to his knees, tucking a hand axe through his belt. The metal head felt cold against his skin. "I will go first." He felt strangely self-conscious in spite of the dark, uneasy at being naked before Legolas, and yet... in spite of that he wished there were light enough that he might see, for Legolas was also unclad, and Gimli secretly thought him very fair.

He set forth, banishing the treacherous thought. Mindful of his tender knees on the stone floor, he moved slowly, keeping the stream close at his left hand. At first he could not feel the ceiling, but within several ells it closed in again, a low sharp ridge, and they went to their elbows, then their bellies. "Watch your head, elf," Gimli warned, aware of Legolas close behind him. "We will have to venture into the stream soon."

They inched forward for some further distance, and Legolas's hands closed around his ankles. Gimli made no complaint, but continued on, moving more slowly than before. At last he could go no further, and he stopped, groping for outcrops to tie the ropes to, but the stone was smooth. "There are no outcroppings to anchor the rope," he warned. "You will have to stay here and hold it for me, elf."

Legolas sighed, breath whispering on Gimli's heels. "Have a care, then, Gimli."

He nodded, a useless gesture in the dark, and secured the rope tightly at his waist. "Keep my axe." He passed it back. It would give the elf a feeling of safety to be thus armed, though there was no room to swing. 

The water was icy as he slipped into it, and its shock stole the breath from his chest. "It is shallow here," Gimli spoke. "I will try the center." He edged sideways, the water deepening until he could crouch again. The current pushed him forward with merciless insistence. "The water grows deeper, but not more than I can handle. Keep the rope taut." 

He ventured forward, shivering. His hands fumbled on the slippery bottom, and he submerged, sputtering. The current tumbled him under the surface for long seconds before the rope caught and he could brace himself to shove his face into air, coughing and blowing.

"Gimli!" Legolas's voice was filled with dismay. The rope stayed taut, bracing him against the pull of the current. 

"It's all right," Gimli managed, still coughing. "The bottom is slippery."

"Come back, and we will try another way."

"Not yet," Gimli started back downstream. "The water is deep and the current grows swifter; I believe the passage is near. I have come this far; I will see how narrow it is." Stubbornly he continued, moving with more care as the current grew faster and the stream narrowed and deepened again. At last his groping hands found a lip of stone where the cave ended and the water passed through its wall. He reached upwards. 

"We are in luck, elf!" Gimli crowed in triumph. The stream had cut a jagged path through the cavern's ceiling; even standing upright, braced between its narrow walls, Gimli could not feel an end to it.

"Have you found it?" The rope shook slightly as Legolas shifted.

"We may yet pass through," Gimli predicted, standing upright inside the passage. "I will go further; if we are lucky the rope will be long enough, and I can anchor you in turn." He shifted, arranging the rope, and pressed on.

The passage was water-smooth, but the stone walls had chinks and crevices that were polished to knife-edges where his fingers curled around them. He felt as though he ran a gauntlet of axes as he crept deeper into the cleft. He would have to be careful indeed; any of these might fray or even slice the rope, and it would be especially dangerous on the return trip. 

Gimli pressed ahead gingerly, groping for open space, wondering when the rope would give out. It pulled tight for a minute and then eased again, and he forged further forward-- another half-dozen ells, and then it held him fast. Legolas must have crept forward to the extent he could, giving Gimli all the slack there was.

Gimli hesitated, listening, and opened his eyes, squinting against the splash of the water. He could see a dim glow and there was a hollow sound to the river. With another ten ells... perhaps. Just perhaps.... Decision made, he slipped the knot of the rope and freed it, pushing ahead with care. His groping fingers clung tightly to stone lest he slip.

Five ells, eight, ten... fifteen, and the light grew ever brighter. The next chamber opened to the outside, and the moon was in the sky. Gimli laughed aloud, exultant, and quickly hoisted his pack onto the bank and turned back for Legolas, slipping into the cleft again and struggling up its narrow slope one careful step at a time. He moved slowly, mindful not to slice himself to ribbons on the perilous water-worn knives, which faced towards him now as he climbed. The water sang, its rush filling his ears, and he very nearly leaped out of his skin when his questing fingers touched-- skin.

"Gimli!" Legolas's voice rang, loud in the narrow crevice, sharp with distress. "Is it you?"

"Is this how you wait?" Gimli's shock turned his voice gruff. 

"Is this how you anchor yourself to safety?" the wet end of the rope slapped into Gimli's face, and he felt remorse for the distress his reckless decision had caused his companion.

"I have found the way out," Gimli grumbled. "I could see a faint light and hear the echoes of a new cavern, but there was no more rope."

"You should have come back for me." Legolas's voice did not soften. 

"Will you argue the point until the water washes us away?" Gimli returned, exasperated. "Or will you follow?"

Legolas fell silent, and together they worked their way down through the narrow passage until they emerged into the next cavern. Legolas had wisely brought his gear, and Gimli helped him push his pack onto the shore and clamber out, helpless not to notice the elf's smooth skin when he brushed it blindly with his own rough hands. They settled on the cold stone floor, and Gimli reached for his pack to dress, but Legolas's cold, wet hands caught his shoulders.

"Do not risk yourself so again," he commanded, voice intense. Gimli's spine stiffened at the imperious tone, his mouth opening, hot words on his tongue.

Legolas's mouth covered his before he could speak.

Gimli's eyes flew wide in the blackness; Legolas's arms dripped wet as they slid around his back, and the elf's wet body felt like an eel against him, slippery and warm and swiftly moving.

For a moment Gimli thought it a mistake, an unwanted slip, but Legolas's tongue delved to find his, hot and sure, and the elf's arms locked around him, bearing him back to the stone. Shocked, Gimli let himself be tumbled, awash in unaccustomed sensation as Legolas's lean waist slid between his thighs. Gimli felt hard heat brand him, rather lower than was convenient. "Legolas," he growled, caught between alarm and sudden, irrevocable desire. "What are you--?"

Legolas's mouth silenced Gimli and drowned him with a rush of forge-heat. 

After a time even the elf had to breathe, and he lifted his head. Gimli's body sang, fire bright in his veins, and he growled his desire, reaching up to take the elf's mouth again. He locked his hands under Legolas's arms, hoisting him upward so that their hardened flesh might touch, grunting again with annoyance when this broke the kiss. 

Gimli took advantage of his move to roll them away from the stream. He covered Legolas, grinding down against him with sure instinct, words forgotten, annoyance fading into heat with the urgent press of flesh on flesh.

"Ai!" Legolas cried out as Gimli found his nipple against his lips and bit down on it. Legolas bucked under him like a shying horse, but Gimli had learned much of riding since he first sat astride a beast, and he was not unseated. 

Gimli thrust his hips again, and they rolled once more, heedless of caution, coming up against a pillar of stone. Legolas lay atop again, and he braced on his elbows and thrust against Gimli again and again. He arched his back like a cat and somehow managing to find Gimli's mouth for a kiss despite the awkward fit.

Gimli filled his hands with the elf's living flesh and struggled, lifting against him, biting down on Legolas's lip. Wet warmth gushed between them. The elf whimpered into his mouth before falling loose in his arms-- and Gimli laughed into blackness, warm with unexpected delight, as he spent himself between their bellies.

"What was that, elf?" He wondered at length. "If I had known that is how your people conquer fear, then I would have frightened you sooner." Light words covered the joy that soared within him, a passion he had often set aside, now unexpectedly freed. 

Legolas rose with grace and began groping for their packs. "I am not afraid, but if you had worried me any less, I would have put your own axe to your throat." His tone was short, and revealed little. 

"Then I am glad that I did not frighten you by halves." Gimli rolled to his knees and sought his own pack, untying the slick oilcloth. His fingers still shook, but his breath returned to him in slow stages as he sorted out his clothing. Legolas was silent, and Gimli refused to allow creeping unease to claim him, speaking to fill the silence.

"You brought my axe?" In answer, Legolas slid it rattling across the stone, and Gimli put it in his belt where it belonged, stamping to settle his feet in his boots. 

His skin tingled, and his mouth. He could feel the memory of Legolas's touch still lingering upon his body, but the elf's lengthy silence unnerved him.

"Well, will you speak, or will you not?" He heard his own bluster, but knew no other way to bridge the strain he now felt growing between them.

"I will," Legolas answered, voice steady. "How far do you think we are from the keep?" 

"Less than a day's journey, surely," Gimli judged. Now he too desired a light stronger than the moon-- to see if the chill in Legolas's voice was matched in his eyes. If that was how it was, then so be it; regret would change nothing. "Can you go on, now you have spent your fears?"

"We will go on," Legolas answered evenly, his voice remote and serene.

Gimli nodded and waited for the elf to rise. Legolas's hand on his shoulder was firm, and they set forth together, unspeaking, following the growing light.

*****

The river passage proved the last serious obstacle, so at last they emerged from the storehouses of Helm's Deep into twilight, muddy and wet and silent, startling the guards of the Rohirrim, who found no little fun in mocking their wet and muddy clothes and their bedraggled hair. Gimli took the teasing in good fun, roaring with laughter to cover Legolas's silence, but his annoyance grew. After they were led to rooms with fire and food, he could cover it no more.

He closed the heavy wooden door behind them and put his back against it, glowering at Legolas. "I do not know what you are about, pouncing on me like a starving cat on a mouse, then bristling like an affronted virgin. If an injury has been done here, elf, it has been done to me."

Legolas flickered a single cool glance at him, and dumped his pack on the floor, seeking through it for a comb. "That is much what I thought when the rope went slack."

"Do not seek to divert me. If you were so unnerved by your fright that you--"

"I have no fear for myself!" Legolas's eyes glittered. "Do you know, Gimli, that the stories of my people tell there are those of my kin who wander still in the grinding ice of the Helcaraxë, far from food and fire, their clothes long ago tattered and lost, able to find neither Valinor nor Beleriand after the ways of the world were bent? Yet it is said they endure. Neither cold nor caves nor lack of food trouble me." He drew his spine straight. "I am an elf."

Gimli stared at him, puzzled by the outburst and angered by the condescension he heard in the elf's voice. "I saw Haldir of Lórien lying slain on the Deeping Wall," he said. "Do not speak to me of elvish immortality." He took a step towards Legolas, aggressive, then stopped himself. "You ask that I tell you tales of Durin and his bride, then you take what has not been offered, without pledging price or troth… have you not heard, Legolas, the stories that tell dwarves choose a mate only once, for life?"

Legolas fell still for a long moment, face pale as the bone comb he held. "I have erred beyond forgiveness." His voice shook with horrified regret.

Gimli stared at him for a long moment, hearing the strange thunder of his pulse in his ears. "The stories are not true." He turned his back; the room seemed to echo, as hollow as the caverns they had escaped. "Do not trouble yourself on my account. I have had as many lovers as I have slain orcs." The lie tasted bitter on his tongue. "You are but one green leaf in a forest."

Legolas's sigh of relief seared Gimli like a burn from hot metal at the forge. He strode away, staring down at the meat and ale laid on the table for them, but his stomach churned. "Eat, elf. I will go and bathe before I rest."

It was the last time they spoke of the moment in the caves. When they parted, Legolas rode Arod southward and Gimli turned his own feet north toward Erebor, both mindful of the vows they had made to kings of men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find the Terry Pratchett shout-out and win the gift of feeling superior to all the poor sods who don't know the wonder of the Discworld. GNU TERRY PRATCHETT!


	3. Embassy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years after their parting, Legolas of Ithilien carries a message from High King Elessar to Gimli, King of the Glittering Caves. He also bears a message of his own. Will it be welcome?

New gates stood tall and firm in the cold grey of the mountain stone when Legolas returned, riding along the Deeping Coomb toward Helm's Deep. The keep no longer bore the scars of war; all had been repaired. Both tall figures and short walked together behind the embrasures atop the wall: dwarves and men of Rohan, as he could see from his perch far above the glacier that carved its way through the valley. 

Legolas touched his horse's neck and whispered to it as they began the long descent into the deep. A strange mix of emotions ruled him. With each step that took him nearer the keep, elation battled dread inside his heart.

Leaves had fallen ten times in Ithilien since Legolas last parted from Gimli son of Gloin, and the memory of his own rudeness burdened him. Aware of the need to make right his error, he had chosen this duty when others less than he might have come. Some part of him doubted he would find warm welcome, though he thought it unlikely Gimli would turn aside an embassy of Gondor.

Those were foolish fears talking. He had no reason to fear Gimli's anger other than his own guilt. He had been churlish with Gimli for many reasons-- not the least his own fear and shame-- but Gimli had accepted his discourtesy without apparent anger. 

The intervening years, a short season in the life of an elf, had given Legolas time for thought. He regretted his coldness and his fear. Gimli was owed an apology and more, if it pleased him to take it. Legolas's pocket weighed heavy, bearing his hopes in the form of a gift. It had cost him many delicate things of craft and beauty: a chain of mithril links and a matched setting delicately wrought by the hand of Celebrimbor, bearing a gem made in Valinor, perhaps wrought even by the hand of Feanor. Remote cousin to the silmarils, the ruby glowed with fire.

He lifted his head and urged the horse forward when they reached the bottom of the hill. There he found a newly laid flagstone road-- angular and neatly fitted, it was clearly of dwarven crafting, and a wide swath of flat green ran alongside it. His horse had caught his restive mood; it tossed its head, and Legolas laughed and tangled his fingers in its mane, letting himself feel hope upon the greensward in the spring sunlight. "Run, then, my friend!" 

The last miles passed swiftly. Soon Legolas clattered up the ramp to the keep, sitting proudly under the wondering eyes of men and the wary gaze of dwarves. "I am Legolas of Greenwood, now of Ithilien by the grace of King Elessar." He swung off his horse and landed easily, half-bowing to the men who stood guard there. "At your service," he added, extending his courtesy to the dwarves, who stared at him, impassive. "I bring an embassy from King Elessar," he told them. "I have already spoken with King Eomer at Edoras, and I would carry my message to King Gimli, if I may."

One of the dwarves spat to the side, but otherwise showed no especial malice in reaction to Legolas's name. It was only the hostility so common between their peoples. It saddened Legolas, but he stood proud, choosing not to acknowledge his discomfort. "May I enter the caves?"

The men of Rohan stood silent, politely deferring to the judgment of the dwarves. After a moment one with silver threads woven into the braids of his beard tapped the steel-shod haft of his axe on the stone. It seemed a signal, for four of the dwarves turned, forming ranks to escort Legolas inside. He followed the four dwarves beyond the keep, alongside the pleasant flow of the Deeping Stream. Those they left behind stared balefully at him, but he firmed his jaw and strode on, pretending oblivion to the discourtesy of their manner.

When they arrived at the caves, Legolas saw doors had been crafted in the stone of the mountain. If they were not so finely made as the doors of Moria, lacking the subtle stonecraft of Narvi and the artistry of Celebrimbor, they were still marvelous by the standards of living craftsmen in Middle Earth. Legolas watched as the dwarves opened them. There was no magic in it that his eyes could see, but he could not have duplicated the pattern of their hands pressing upon the stone. It took all four of them to open the doors, touching weighted springs and hidden levers in a distinct pattern. He politely turned his eyes away before they finished, so he might not be accused of spying out the secrets of the portal.

Though Legolas had visited the caves before and knew they were now occupied and tended, he half-expected the suffocating dark of his memory to greet him within the gate. Instead he was met by warm flickering light. Shells of translucent carved stone held oil and wicks burned in them, startling him with their sweet smell. They hung on the walls at the height of his chest, pairs of them gleaming once in every span of his arms for as far as he could see down the corridor. 

The lights played upon the ceiling and the walls, purely lovely. Legolas's father had no lamps so finely wrought in his own cavernous dwelling. If such works had been made by other elves or by men, Thranduil would have paid richly to own them. For dwarves of Aglarond, lately of Erebor, there would likely be no market in Thranduil’s hall were the lamps thrice as beautiful.

As in Moria, the passage roof was high, tall enough for men, a quiet affirmation of the alliance between Aglarond and Rohan. Dwarves were practical; the arrangement duplicated the chambers at Moria's western gate, designed to accommodate elven allies from Hollin.

"You have begun great works here." Legolas touched a lamp lightly with his fingertips, watching the oil ripple in its bowl. "There is great beauty in the Glittering Caves."

His guides' faces did not soften behind their beards, and they tramped onward without answering. Legolas followed, listening to the sound of their steps. It did not grow and echo back to them from emptiness. These caves were filled with folk. The sound of Legolas and his escort passing faded and mingled into the sounds of others: hammers tapping, harsh dwarven speech, once even the cry of a babe. Dwarves bustled about, most of them busy, but none too busy to notice the elf in their midst, brows lowering as they frowned on him.

Hardly a hero's welcome. Legolas accepted their suspicion. His treatment of their king had earned no more, though perhaps they knew it not.

They stopped at a crossroads where two of the dwarves proceeded onward, the others warning Legolas to remain behind by crossing their axes before him. He stopped as they bade, listening to the life of the dwarven city. They had passed through the beauty of the natural caverns and entered an area of active mining, where hammers sang and fires roared in hidden chimneys. He was taken off-guard when a red-bearded dwarf emerged from a passage nearby, flanked by the two silent guards.

"Gimli!" Legolas heard the joy in his own voice. "It has been long, my friend."

Gimli measured him coolly; hardly a picture of royal estate, he wore only boots, leather breeches, and a smith's apron. His muscles were corded and gleaming. He bore a hammer in his hand, and his braided beard stuck to his sweating skin. "Elf." He handed the hammer to one of his kin and took a cloth from his belt, wiping his hands and face. "You have brought word from Gondor?"

"From Aragorn, King Elessar." Legolas realized Gimli's muscular chest had captured his gaze and raised his eyes to meet his friend's rather too late for courtesy. Something flickered deep in Gimli's dark eyes, but was gone before Legolas could be sure of it. 

"Send word to Gyda that we feast tonight, and give the elf one of the rooms we have prepared for visiting dignitaries of men." Gimli gave gruff orders, adding a few in his own tongue, before he returned his attention to Legolas. "There will be time to share messages after you have washed away the dust of the road." He returned to his forge without further remark.

The guards led Legolas away crisply, with an air of slightly improved courtesy. Their road led back into the natural caverns, nearer the outlet of the Deeping Stream. Legolas's room lay behind a fold of flowstone wall. A natural chamber had been closed off with fitted stone and gated with carved wood. Inside Legolas found it furnished in the manner of men: with a carved wooden table and chair, bedstead and mattress, a basin of water and a woven rug, and a shallow fireplace with a fire fresh laid but not lit. He did not know what he had expected of dwarven hospitality, but the homely furnishings within the delicate fluted stone chamber disquieted him rather than giving him comfort.

"We will return for you when it is time for the feast." The youngest of his guards, a black-haired westerner with barely a start on a beard, bowed stiffly to Legolas. "Is all to your liking?"

"I am comfortable, thank you." Legolas returned the gesture, bending his back until his beard, had he been a dwarf, would have swept the floor. They left him quietly.

*****

The time for feasting had not yet arrived when a tap came at his door. Legolas rose to answer and found a strange dwarf standing without. The dwarf wore a curious manner of pouch on its back, and a chubby-faced babe rode within, swaddled in white, sleeping. Legolas looked at it for a moment in wonder; he had never before seen a dwarven child up close. It had a faint wisp of beard at its chin and thick black hair on its head.

"You are Greenleaf." The dwarf stared at him with open evaluation, so frank it bordered on insolence. "I am Gyda, Queen of Aglarond, wife of Gimli son of Gloin and Mistress of the Glittering Caves. I have come to ensure our honored guest is housed in comfort."

Legolas blinked. His hand moved without heeding the command of his will, lightly touching his pocket, where the jeweled necklace lay that he had meant to offer Gimli in earnest of his love. 

Gimli had a wife and child? It seemed his gift would not be needed.

Remembering courtesy abruptly, Legolas bowed even more deeply than before his escort. "I am Legolas, and it is my honor to meet the wife of Gimli Elf-Friend. I am always at your service and your family's, my lady." The words poured from him with innate courtesy, hiding the bitter ache in his heart. His father had trained him well.

"You are as fair-spoken as Gimli said you would be." She bowed, and he covered his amusement when her beard brushed the floor. It was easy to hide the moment of mirth, for his humor was mingled with shame at his own selfish displeasure that Gimli had taken a wife, and at his surprise over the compliments she had offered. Clearly Gimli had taught her to esteem him. 

"Please, come in and sit with me." Legolas stepped back from the door and she entered, inspecting the place quickly, then nodding curt approval. 

"I have no time to sit and share pleasantries with you, King of Ithilien, though I appreciate your courtesy. I must be away to supervise the kitchens. You seem well housed. If you have need of anything that has not been provided, you may speak to me at the evening meal and I shall see to it your wishes are granted."

"You honor me greatly, my lady." Legolas smiled down on her, liking her in spite of himself. She seemed an advantageous match for Gimli, kind and wise and well-spoken in her own right despite Legolas's jealousy. "A star shines on the hour of our meeting." He meant the words, though they tasted of sorrow.

She hesitated for the space of a breath, looking on him. "Your hair is spun of gold, like the gift of the Lady of the Wood, and your tongue is of truesilver. Elves are not often welcomed by our folk, but I judge we are richer for your company." She turned from him, and it came to him that she too seemed sad. Yet before he could find words to soothe her sorrow, she had stamped away.

*****

Legolas was ready when Gimli appeared not long after, announcing himself with a rough knock that Legolas knew came of no guard or diffident guide. "Come in, my friend." His smile felt false upon his face, tight with strain and sorrow. "It has been too long." He did not rise and go to Gimli; his hands lay useless in his lap. "You look well." A tongue of silver he might have, but at present it felt heavy in his mouth. "Your work here prospers." 

Silence fell as Gimli regarded him, and Legolas felt his back stiffen, his polite words fading. An apology Gimli was still owed, though the other gift Legolas had intended to offer would not be wanted, but hurt made poor encouragement for speech. 

"Yes," Gimli said at length, and moved past Legolas to the fire, breaking the growing tension. "The dwarves of Aglarond prosper, and yet neither half so well as the men of Rohan, nor a quarter so well as the men of Gondor."

Legolas turned his gaze aside, respectful of Gimli's worry. The waxing of men and the waning of other races was not a matter of which any elf could fail to be aware. 

"Your line, at least, will continue." Legolas broached the matter delicately, meaning to offer congratulations, but Gimli did not turn to him.

"Aye," he spoke at last, gruff. "So it seems." He lifted a barbed iron poker and stirred the fire, observing its draft. "You have not come here merely to bring well-wishes for my heir. You bring messages of greater import." He turned back towards Legolas, eyes dark and unreadable. "What would King Elessar ask of the dwarves?"

"There is cause for war to the south." Gimli knew this well; Eomer had ridden with Aragorn to skirmish against the Southrons and Haradrim raiders on many occasions since the victory in the east. "Elessar would end the war and bring men together to work in peace. He asks all the kindreds of the west for their support and pledges his own in time of need. He would have all the free peoples represented in accord before the fading of the elves is finished."

"Parley with the Southrons and Easterlings will fail. He needs more soldiers." 

Legolas could not miss the reluctance in Gimli's voice, yet he remembered a time when they had lamented the ending of war, for fear that they would no longer be needed or find a place in the new age unfolding. "And ambassadors, if the men of the dark will indeed parley. If they will not, it would be foolish to send an embassy that could not fight free." Legolas smiled, his face wry. "He says you and I are each worth a thousand men."

Gimli huffed, taking the compliment as his due. "I am no ambassador, elf!"

"Who better than their king to have your people's interests at heart? There is much that the dwarves could trade for with the men of the south, greatly to your profit."

"I would not sell armor or swords to such men." Gimli glowered fiercely. "Too many warriors, good friends and true, fell to the swords of Sauron's allies among men when we clashed with them before the gates of Mordor."

"They may buy jewels and lamps. They may trade rare stones and commission you to carve and build."

"My people will thrive the better if life is not too easy," Gimli grumbled. "Riches kindle greed; they do not quench it. We have all we might wish to forge and build in the kingdoms of Rohan and Gondor."

"Then do not send any of your people. Come yourself, and stand for the interests of the dwarves as you think is most fitting." Legolas felt shame again at his own words. Yet he could not deny his wish to have Gimli at his side again. Away from Aglarond, in company with Aragorn, he might pretend he had never despoiled the strange and wondrous thing that had grown between them, souring it before it ripened. 

Gimli's face hardened, and Legolas could hear his answer before he ever spoke.

"Gimli," Legolas forestalled him on impulse, voice low with strain. "Do not let my foolish actions from long ago decide you on this matter. Aragorn needs his allies about him. I did not act justly with you. What happened-- you frightened me, Gimli, and finding you unharmed unseated my reason. I should not have dishonored you with my failure to ask, or shamed you with my coldness after. Not a day has passed when I have not bitterly regretted the injury I did to our friendship, the first between dwarf and elf in a hundred lifetimes of men. Not a day has passed when I have not wished I could go back to that day and beg forgiveness for my cruelty." 

He swallowed more words. Every day for ten years, Legolas had hoped for the courage to speak to Gimli as he was now, and not an hour had passed without him savoring in memory the taste of Gimli's kiss. He reached inside his pocket, touching the cold metal and stone that lay there, once hidden in hope, now left hidden in despair. His own foolish pride had destroyed his chance at Gimli's heart, but he might yet save their friendship. "I humbly ask your pardon now, Gimli. Say you will grant it."

Gimli did not speak for a time, turning away from Legolas and running his fingertips across the carved stone of the mantel. A tremor shook his hand, the only evidence of his thoughts.

"I cannot forgive what I have never held against you." Gimli's voice sounded thick in the small room. "Do not ask for what I cannot give. I have regretted our parting a thousand times, but your touch...?" He cleared his throat, shifting his feet. "Never." His callused fingers made an uneven whisper on the stone. "I will answer Aragorn's summons and we will ride together as we did in the war, elf."

Legolas smiled on him with gratitude, yet even as Gimli's words kindled a flush of heat in him, his heart was sad. Though much had been forgiven, his hopes had miscarried. Failing to take mortal haste into his reckoning, he had left his apology too late.


	4. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a word or two of honest explanation would prevent all kinds of anguish.

Gimli left Legolas, walking with his head high, pride strong in him, hiding the despair that lay close beneath the surface. He nodded to the small honor guard he had chosen for the elf's convenience: young dwarves from the Blue Mountains, none of whom were related to the thirteen dwarves who had conquered Smaug. Too many dwarves had long and unpleasant memories of the elvenking of Mirkwood-- Legolas's father. Even among those who did not, there was not a dwarf in Aglarond who didn’t know Thranduil had imprisoned their starving kin for no better reason than finding them wandering the wood. The guards would help his people to keep courteous tongues in their heads-- and if they did not check their own tongues, they would answer to their king.

Gimli passed through the caverns swiftly, the scowl on his face keeping the few who might have approached him at bay. He wandered with purpose, leaving the lamp-lit passages and the halls that echoed with voices, moving into areas of the caves that had not yet been settled. He took one of the last lamps as he passed into the dim, holding it aloft as he journeyed further back into the heart of the mountain.

Back, indeed, until the stream emerged from a crevice in a sheer wall of rock, and Gimli halted upon a spot he had visited many times in recent years, always alone, to sit and brood on what he had had so briefly, then lost.

" _Ai, Legolas. Meleth nîn_." The words tasted bitter, even shameful-- Sindarin, learned by listening to teams of elvish gardeners in Gondor, never uttered by Gimli where any could hear. " _Amrâlimê_ ," he whispered again in Khuzdul, feeling his cheeks burn as the words echoed back to him, mocking him in whispers. 

Even now, Legolas remembered what had passed between them with shame. Knowing it broke Gimli's heart. He wedged his torch between two rocks and sat against the stalagmite where he and Legolas had lain together so long ago. Letting his eyes close, he drew a slow breath. 

Legolas was more graceful and deadly and full of simple beauty than he had let himself remember. Gimli had hardly felt able to bear Legolas's gentle apology until a time came when he could retreat in good order. Simply being in the room with the elf was a form of torture. The sight of torchlight gleaming in Legolas's clear eyes and gilding the sharp, high bone of his cheek had ravished Gimli with desire as he entered the room, and Legolas's voice had been a ghost's caress that left him aching for the touch of a lover's flesh. 

A touch it seemed he would know only once in life.

Gimli set his jaw fiercely. Better once than never at all, and better once with the elf than every night with another. He could give his body in lust, if he so wished, but it was not in his nature. He had tasted perfection; why would he want to devour carrion? Let the other races share their bodies with many. Such behavior was foreign to dwarves. 

"I thought you would come here. The elf is beautiful and wellspoken." Gyda's voice startled Gimli, and he scrambled to his feet, embarrassed. She joined him calmly, not caring whether she was welcome. "You have spoken so often of him. Your friendship with him is no longer a puzzlement to me."

Gimli liked Gyda and respected her, though her pragmatic manner often made for discomfort when she spoke of things he would rather leave unsaid.

"He is an elf." It needed no more; all knew the habits of elves (and men, for that matter) with regard to fidelity-- or rather, the lack of it. 

"He does not love as we do." She nodded understanding. "You are too proud. You should have forgotten him and found another you could love." 

"You did not complain when I took Thrasi as my heir."

"I would have been a fool to complain." Gyda shook her head. "What message does the elf bring from King Elessar?"

"The king would have representatives of all the races at his side when he confronts the Southrons-- to negotiate trading rights or to do battle, whichever they choose." Gimli gave her a shrewd glance of his own. "Perhaps Thrasi will ascend the throne beforetimes, and you will serve as his steward?"

She snorted. "None who have seen you swing an axe would speak so." She stood. "Besides, the elf will shoot anyone who would harm you."

Gimli shrugged, though she was right. "I can look after myself."

"Perhaps." She turned away. "You will have no need to fear for your kingdom while you are at war. I am competent to manage in your absence, of course."

Of course. It was much of the reason he had chosen her, after all-- her capability, the death of her mate Orm, and the birth of her orphaned son had made her exceptionally convenient, providing for the successor he knew he would never sire. 

He rose to return with Gyda to the settled caverns. "I will order preparations made and Legolas and I will ride at dawn. Send four dozens of our warriors after me on the third day." They were all the mines could easily spare.

So resolved, he prepared himself to endure the evening's feasting. He would ride out to answer Aragorn's call in the morning.

*****

Though there were horses in plenty in Rohan, Gimli remained an indifferent rider. His feet served him well enough in all things but haste. A pack animal was the only beast he wanted for this trip, so he ordered a pony laden with provisions for a trip in both temperate and desert lands. Gimli wrapped its reins in his fist and led it forth from the stables, blinking as he left the caves and ventured into daylight. Legolas awaited him, his own horse waiting quietly without a tether.

"Where is your mount?" Legolas stood in silhouette against the rising sun, and Gimli had to squint to see him. 

"I have run with you across the whole of Rohan, and you doubt my feet?"

"Will you run to Minas Tirith, then, when you might ride with me?" Legolas smiled at him. Gimli understood too late; in some hidden part of his heart, he had hoped to hear those words even as he planned to walk and ordered only a pack animal. He cursed his foolish weakness.

"I will walk to Minas Tirith on my own good feet, and if you will not wait, then I will come after you as quickly as I may." He lifted his chin stubbornly and received the bitter reward of Legolas's fading smile, lancing him like a spear penetrating poorly-made mail.

"I will walk with you, then, until the road wearies our feet, though for the love of King Elessar, we should go swiftly." Legolas clucked to his horse, and they set forth down the ramp and onto the green.

Gimli plodded along in silence, wrapped in brooding thought. He knew he would tire first; Legolas could walk for days without rest. Doubtless the elf's words were true. Aragorn would have need of them at once. He should have been silent. If he had, he would be astride Legolas's horse now, with his arms around the elf's waist and golden hair brushing his face.

The fantasy pained him even as it warmed him, and he stubbornly fixed his eyes on the road. After a time he spoke. "My people built this road. The men of Rohan dug the channel and laid crushed rock. We cut the stone and set it, then laid turves in the seams. The road is strong; the crushed rock drains water. Carts may ride on this path after hard rains without disturbing the stones," he explained, voice gruff.

"It is a fine road, craftily made." Legolas agreed, voice sober. "I admired it as I rode to the Deep." He hesitated, and glanced over his shoulder. "Gimli, we are away from the keep, and the eyes of your people will not see us here. Will you not ride?"

Gimli looked away; the spring wind sent cool air flowing over his face from the grey ice of the glacier. Pride and desire warred in him. "You are a stubborn elf, and my feet are as good as any horse's. But you are right. King Elessar will have need of us. For his sake, I will ride." His heart sped in his chest and he turned away from Legolas to his pony, hooking his walking stick into its baggage. "Find a stone, and I will climb it and mount." He would not be hosted aloft like a child, at least, though his pride might otherwise be in tatters.

They walked for some ells without finding a stone of the right height, but one was discovered at last. Gimli awkwardly scrambled onto the horse. It wore no saddle, and bore only slender reins and a halter. Legolas tied the pack animal to his belt, hands deft on the leather straps.

"Sit forward," Legolas instructed at length, and bounced lightly up behind him. Gimli struggled for a moment, disconcerted, then Legolas's arms slipped around him and his slender hands took up the reins. For his part, Gimli clutched the beast's mane in his fists and tried not to acknowledge the flutter of his belly and the shiver that slid through his skin.

"That is better," Legolas judged. "We have far to go." He spoke a soft word in elvish and the horse broke into a slow trot. Gimli yelped, clinging as its back bounced under him, but Legolas's arm tightened around his waist. His voice was warm in Gimli's ear. "I will not let you fall." 

This time he could not hide his shiver. His mail whispered with its force. Legolas's warmth crept through the layers of his clothes. Gimli shut his eyes and felt the firm strength of the arm about his waist. "You will be the death of me, elf."

He had no cause to repent of that judgment in the days that followed, riding in Legolas's arms by day and yearning for them as he lay through the long nights, his body stiff-- not only from the saddle. They spoke little. Gimli had not the courage to ask the elf his thoughts. Legolas often sang, words that Gimli did not understand, but which finally made his eyes close and helped him drowse as they rode, tucked against Legolas's belly, dreaming of visions he would not tell. 

"Gimli," Legolas roused him on the fourth day; the sun stood well past noon. "There is the Rammas Echor."

He blinked awake and Legolas steadied him. Gimli realized his helm was gone and twisted to see if it had fallen on the ground, but it was perched upon the baggage borne by the pony. Legolas's cheek touched his ear. He covered his startlement with a noisy yawn.

"The troops are gathering." Men were camped before the city in a mass on the fields, setting up tents of white, colored banners fluttering gaily in the breeze. "It is well we made haste." Gimli realized his hand lay over Legolas's on his belly, their fingers twined, and he bit his lip. 

He was a fool. A pure fool, the sort who would reach out to touch glowing metal at the forge, thinking it was beautiful, not thinking he would be burned. The sort who would make even a dwarf-child laugh its disdain.

He loosed Legolas's fingers and pitched himself off the horse without warning. Landing awkwardly on his side, he scrambled to his feet again, dusting himself off. Legolas stared at him, startled, as Gimli reached for the reins of his pack pony and began to walk. 

"There is no more need for haste," Gimli explained calmly, as though he had dismounted with all the grace of an elf. 

"I would have helped you off the horse." 

"I did not require your aid."

"I think you have not forgiven me." Legolas remained just as calm as Gimli himself, his voice cool. "Perhaps it is true you do not regret my touch, but I think other things still lie between us."

The feel of Legolas's cheek touching him still burned on Gimli's face as the rest of his skin flushed hot to match. Gimli stared up at the elf, stubborn, and forced a laugh. "If you expect me to become a dainty daughter of men, a courtesan curtseying and fawning and begging you to set out footstools for me simply because we have lain together, you are more than foolish, elf." He succeeded in jerking his pony's reins free and stamped forward towards Minas Tirith.

Legolas joined him a moment later, his face stern and his eyes fixed on the White City. "I would offer such courtesy to any, be it Aragorn himself or a tramp in the road. Few would be churlish enough to refuse it."

"Then are the words for dwarf and churl the same in your language?"

Legolas stiffened. "I have not thought thus since we passed our days of sorrow together in Lothlórien."

Gimli huffed, skeptical.

Legolas leapt lightly off his horse and led it at Gimli's side. "You have said there was no need to forgive my touch, but you spoke nothing of our friendship. Rather, you said I must not ask for what could not be given. Do not think your meaning was missed." Legolas reached to take the pack pony's reins and held it back, forcing Gimli to halt and glower at him.

"I deserve your distrust; I admit it freely." Legolas lifted his head, proud. "But if you let me, I will earn your trust again, Gimli." He laid his hand on Gimli's shoulder.

"Elf...." Gimli growled, but stopped; it was impossible to explain. He was snared in a falsehood of his own crafting. Legolas was clever and had read Gimli's words shrewdly, but he still believed the lie Gimli had told him long ago. 

Gimli refused to admit he would take no other lover, yet he must speak to resolve this. "Legolas." He heard pain echo in his voice. "We will never be again as we once were. That does not mean there is no trust between us now."

"Even enemies may put aside mistrust at need in battle against a common foe." Legolas frowned on him with dismay. "I would have us be friends again."

"We are friends," Gimli agreed, working to keep his voice level. "But we are innocents no longer." He ducked his shoulder, escaping the elf's hand, and left him holding the pony.

Though the elf joined him swiftly, leading both beasts, he no longer offered his touch, and Gimli spoke not of his longing.


	5. Caravan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a certain pair of boneheads are vouchsafed wisdom by Yenta!Aragorn, but are too stubborn to heed it.

"The Southrons and the men of the east lost their leaders with the fall of Sauron. No single king existed to unite them after his fall. They have split into factions, each tribe pitted against its neighbors. Though they raid the borderlands, they have posed no serious threat to Gondor." King Elessar looked about the small gathering of his counselors and the leaders of his allies soberly. "Until now. A warlord is rising far to the south and east, and he builds allies among the desert peoples. He has united many of the tribes, and our spies report his numbers increasing. If we allow him to proceed unchecked, he will rival Gondor in a span of years, and perhaps may come to outnumber her." 

Gimli grunted and slid his gaze to Legolas. The elf looked serene, though the passing of his people into the west reduced the number of allies Gondor could call for, and all present knew it.

"Will we go to parley, then, or to fight?" Gimli settled his hands on the haft of his axe. Prolonged diplomatic discussion annoyed him. 

"We will go prepared to do both, though I hope our parley may succeed." Aragorn looked around the assemblage, face grave. "I do not think, however, that all the Southrons desire peace with Gondor. There is a long history of conflict between our peoples."

"If speech fails, then what will we fight for, besides our lives?" Imrahil demanded; he sat near Legolas. Gimli was struck by the subtle likeness in their features.

"To destroy the alliance and to slay the man who made it possible." Aragorn's face grew hard. "We cannot allow this alliance to grow in power. The southern lands are harsh and inhospitable. Long have the men of the south desired our fertile fields and plentiful water. We will not allow them to grow strong enough to take our lands."

The men shifted and eyed one another. The spies' reports were grave indeed, but none wanted to risk lives needlessly in battle.

"Who is with me?" Aragorn asked.

"I am!" Without hesitation Gimli spoke, and Legolas's words echoed in unison with his. Their eyes met and locked, and they stood.

"And I," Eomer echoed, a fast third. 

"And I." Imrahil rose, and others followed suit, some hesitant, others staunch. Gimli watched as Aragorn's eyes marked them all in turn.

"Then Gondor and her allies will ride south. I will send a request for parley. Gather your soldiers and provision them. We will need strong tents and as many filled water skins as we may carry-- horses will drink much, and will founder in the sand. We must leave much of our cavalry as a rear-guard when we enter the dunes. Water will be our greatest need in the desert, and with it we will need salt." Gimli listened to the king, taking heed of the points that differed from dwarven campaigns, and ignored Legolas's eyes, which still rested on him.

*****

Troops of dwarves and elves and more men trickled in slowly, swelling their forces until Elessar decided they could sustain no more troops effectively in the desert, and they set forth down the road through south Ithilien. 

Gimli's own two feet were sufficient to carry him. It was well, for Elessar had reduced the number of horses as much as possible, and many men walked. There were other beasts with the company also, strange small pack animals with horns and hooves more like a goat's than a horse's. There were also a few foul-tempered brown beasts with humps on their tall backs, creatures such as Gimli had never seen before. They spat at their handlers and kicked anyone unwary enough to wander close. Rumor had it they could be ridden and would live for many days without water. Gimli doubted what he heard and mistrusted them even more than horses, if possible.

He rarely saw Legolas as they marched. The elves scouted constantly, ranging before and behind, and Legolas remained on point guard. Not that Gimli had inquired after him. Of course not. He had merely overheard the news as he happened to pass Aragorn's encampment after they halted one evening. That the encampment had been far out of his way was a matter of little consequence. He did not tire so swiftly as men.

Dwarvish hardiness was not always to Gimli's advantage, as his dreams proved. Not weary enough to fade into dreamless rest, Gimli's mind haunted him with visions of the elf. His sleeping mind conjured visions of Legolas's long slim body, his skillful hands, his golden hair shining in the sun. Gimli tossed in his blankets, haunted by how the elf might look clad only in firelight, lashes sinking closed with pleasure, mounted firmly astride Gimli and swaying as he rode....

Gimli awoke with a groan, forged it into a curse, and scrambled out of his tent on all fours, hoping the cool air would soothe his nerves. Before he could stand his head struck solid flesh and he jerked himself upright, startled.

Legolas looked down, moon-silvered, his face in shadow. The elf stepped back. "Your sleep is troubled." 

"It would not be if you did not stamp about the camp like a troll when all should be sleeping." No matter Legolas's steps were always noiseless. Was the blasted elf spying on him at night while he slept? "What is your business?"

Legolas half-turned from him. "My heart tells me the parley will not go smoothly. Already the Southmen's scouts watch us from afar."

"You should tell this news to Aragorn, not to me."

"I have. That is why I have come. He would meet with all his captains. We will reach the edge of a sea of dunes ere long. I can taste the desert on the winds. Soon we will forge ahead while our rear guard awaits."

Gimli nodded, his suspicion giving way to grudging acceptance. 

"It will be hard going for dwarves in the sands." Legolas led him away from the embers of his cook fire towards the center of the camp. "Men sink to their ankles in the dunes, and their every step is a weariness."

Gimli scowled. "I am not riding one of those spitting beasts."

"None of us are. They will bear our extra water-- they are too precious to waste carrying soldiers." Legolas led on, stepping lightly around the ropes of a tent. Gimli followed cautiously in his footsteps.

The council was not the formal affair Gimli expected. Instead, a mere handful of the king's closest advisers and comrades sat at ease around his fire, sipping wine. Aragorn himself sat between Faramir and Eomer, and a space in the circle lay open for Legolas and Gimli. Gimli seated himself before a fur-draped log, and Legolas folded his legs and sat at his side, reaching for wine and pouring it into flagons for them both. Gimli tilted his back and drank, and Legolas sipped from his own cup. The men continued speaking.

"We should demand they come to us." Eomer had never liked the plan to leave his men waiting at the edge of the desert. "We are the greater force, the more powerful kings."

Aragorn nodded patiently, but not in agreement. "They will allow us to speak, but they will not travel. They will greet us, I think, before we penetrate far, but not until we have given them the advantage of entering their realm."

"I do not like it." Gimli shook his head. "We will walk unwitting into any trap they care to set for us."

"It is the only way," Faramir countered Eomer. "Elessar is right. Their pride is too great to come to us. I believe they will meet with us here...." he stabbed a finger at a roll of parchment. "It is the winter palace of Katam, a great oasis in the sands. The scouts they send must be from here. They know where we are and have time to put their plans in place."

"That is what troubles me," Eomer responded dryly. "They will have plans-- and troops. They are fierce fighters."

"We will take our best warriors into the sands. Our rear guard will follow some days later, in case the talks do not go well."

"My dwarves will march with you, my lord," Gimli spoke up. "The Southrons do not fight us well; they are used to fighting men and elves. "

"Your dwarves will not fare far in the sands," Imrahil objected. "And we cannot spare the wagons to carry them. Our wagons must carry water."

"Do you think my people frail? I will challenge you to a race, then!" Gimli flared. "You and I, Prince Imrahil, in the sands, and the loser is he who first stops walking!"

"Peace." Aragorn intervened. "Fighting among ourselves is pointless." He looked gravely to Imrahil. "Wagons will not roll in the sands. We will have only the water that we and our beasts can carry." His voice was calm. "Dwarves do not drink as much as men. Nor do elves, and yet they can carry more, and walk thrice as far."

"Lade us as you will, and we will walk until Imrahil begs for rest," Gimli grumbled. 

"My elves will do likewise," Legolas added. 

"My men will walk, if we must!" Eomer added, but Aragorn shook his head kindly. 

"No, Rohan will guard the rear, and you will enter the desert only as I say. We would be fools to kill our horses among the sands. Let your horsemen come afoot when they are needed."

"Then I at least will come with the first group and attend the parley," Eomer insisted, stubborn, and a look passed between him and Aragorn that sparked Gimli's interest. He watched closely as Aragorn smiled.

"If you trust your lieutenants, then come," Aragorn said softly. "I would have you with me."

"And I will come also," Faramir said quickly. His eyes flashed defiance to Eomer.

Aragorn hesitated, and Gimli's eyes widened; that was the way of things, then? Jealousy among lieutenants could be troublesome, even if it were for the love of their lord.

"I would have you come, as well, but someone must lead the rear guard."

"Imrahil can lead our men," Faramir spoke recklessly. "I would be in your vanguard, my king." He laid his hand upon the king's boot, and Aragorn chuckled softly, but not without fondness.

Imrahil laughed, and Aragorn gave him a rueful look. "I too love my king," Imrahil spoke. "And I will stay to guard the rear, if he orders. I have no love for the desert sands, though my words may sadden the King of Aglarond. But if he wishes, we may walk the sands when parley is done-- or battle, if the case may be. We will see then who tires of the sand first."

Gimli bowed, accepting both the challenge and the delay. Imrahil rose, bowing to Aragorn. "It grows late, and it seems matters are decided. I will return to my bed until the morning's march." He slipped away into the night.

Gimli also started to rise, but Legolas's hand fell on his arm. Startled by the elf's touch, the first in many days, he sat still. 

"I too will retire," Aragorn tapped his pipe out into the fire. "And I know I shall not lack for company." His voice grew wry. "So long as our battle does not begin this night, it will be well."

Faramir and Eomer exchanged hooded glances, waging war without words, and Gimli felt himself redden. Was this what Legolas would have him stay to see?

Aragorn rose easily, stretching, and quite simply retreated into his tent, walking with easy grace. Faramir followed on his heels, and after a moment's hesitation Eomer shrugged to himself and did as well. The King of Rohan spared only a curt nod for Legolas and Gimli, who alone remained of the council.

"He has lain with them many nights since we left Gondor-- they are his shieldbrothers and bedmates. And friends." Legolas spoke in a whisper meant for Gimli's ears alone. "I have lain with him myself, in years long past." He hesitated, eyes searching Gimli's face. "The Queen understands, and the Lady Eowyn. They cannot always be with their husbands, and they know the ways of warriors and men. They would not expect them to be different." There was fire in his eyes, and Gimli guessed his intention before the question came. "I have no duties until morning. Would you have me in your bed tonight, my friend? I would not repeat my discourtesy from the caves. I would give you pleasure and take comfort in having you near."

Lust rose in Gimli's throat, and bile. Legolas might as easily join Aragorn and his jealous concubines. It would make no difference to him, and they would doubtless be more to his liking than Gimli. If the elf's words were true, all four of them were long used to hasty, heartless couplings planned over wine and forgotten as quickly over the morning meal.

He closed his eyes, but the vision of Legolas's eager face was burned deep into his mind, and it did not give him peace. The elf seemed to offer everything he wanted, but in truth, he did not. Legolas might come to Gimli's bed for one night, but he would not give his heart. 

Gimli could not accept less.

"I am no man." He struggled to his feet. The wine was strong, rushing to his head. He took care not to topple into the fire. "Join them, if you will, but I will sleep alone." 

He left Legolas sitting by the fire, and did not let himself look back to see if Aragorn would have his third bedmate. 

The night he passed was long and cold, but full of fevered dreams.

*****

The desert night grew chill, whispering through the sleeping camp, the stars of Elbereth glittering crisp and clear overhead. Aragorn pulled his cloak around his shoulders and spared a glance to be sure Faramir and Eomer still slept, tangled in his blankets, their faces at peace.

He slipped out, taking his pipe and preparing a light for it, then headed for the tall ridge they had elected to camp behind, its dark length offering a closer view of the stars, away from cook fires. He knew he would find the elf there, standing guard and looking up at the sky from this, the highest point at hand. 

He climbed the gritty rock, soft boots quiet but not silent enough to go unheard. Legolas stood at the summit as expected, keeping watch. He offered his hand and pulled Aragorn to his side, and Aragorn settled next to him, drawing out his pipe. He took weed from his pouch and tamped it with his thumb, then opened the small box he carried that held an ember and tongs bedded in the sand within. He took the tongs and lifted it to his pipe, unhurried, and then replaced everything as it had been.

"You should not toy with the dwarf's heart." His words curled up and then drifted into the dim with a stream of smoke from his pipe. "You may do harm you do not guess." He drew smoke deep, then breathed it into the night.

Legolas tensed, but remained silent.

"The Khazad are a proud people. When a dwarf sets his heart, he does not change it. They love once, for life." Aragorn looked up at Legolas's cold, silent silhouette. "You taunt Gimli with what he cannot have."

"It is not so," Legolas protested. "I once spoke of this with Gimli myself."

Aragorn's face glowed ruddy as he drew on his pipe. "What did he tell you?"

"He said he had taken many lovers." Defense and pain filled the elf's voice. "And that I was but one green leaf in a forest."

They sat in silence for a time as Aragorn's pipe burned down, and at last he tapped it out against the stone. "When he said this thing," Aragorn tilted his head back to look at the stars, "Was it what he believed you needed to hear?"

"Perhaps. I trusted him."

Aragorn shook his head. "I have known many dwarves, and I have read deeply of the ways of dwarven-kind. Gimli is proud. He would not wish for you to feel remorse or pity. He would rather suffer alone."

Legolas's mouth opened, then closed again, and he turned his face away. "But he has taken a wife, and she has borne his heir."

"He provides for his people, as a good king must." 

Legolas's fair face grew troubled. "Would that I taken ship with my kin when the war was done, ere ever I hurt him." 

Aragorn shook his head. "He would not have it so. His heart was given even before the war was won, I judge."

"As was mine." Soft, filled with sorrow, Legolas's words came slowly. "But I was afraid when he was not. I touched him before I ought, and he gave himself with joy. But I repented, and I treated him coldly. Then I departed to my country, and years passed before I returned to him, ready to offer what we both have desired. But he has wed. He has sired an heir, and he refuses to let me come to his bed again."

Aragorn watched him, silent, not judging.

Legolas rose, his face half-silvered by the bright moon, his eyes steady but deep with sorrow. "I taught him to distrust me, in my folly, and know not the way to make things right." He leaped lightly from the stone, landed in silence, and was gone swiftly, a pale shade darting among the tents. 

*****

Before the next morning waned, the company passed into the sands, marching first through creeping fingers of dune that extended across the solid earth, then venturing onto the dunes themselves. Gimli knew what to expect of sand, but had never marched far upon it before. Within hours he and his dwarves were panting under the sun, sweating inside their armor, but they bore it stoically, taking pride in their strength as the men about them faltered and cursed. 

After a day spent slogging through the sands, the sun broiling down upon their heads and heat rippling up from beneath their feet, the company took to walking at night. This cooled the fervor of Gimli's dreams, though the growing lightness of his pack did not decrease his weariness. Rather, it fed his fears as he grew to understand how much water would be required for a long desert march. 

Only the elves bore the desert without apparent hardship. They trod as lightly on the sand as upon snow. Gimli secretly wished they had ten thousand elves, with Legolas to keep them humble. 

Legolas himself was nowhere to be seen. The patrols reported him scouting point and refusing offers of relief, but taking skins of water to replace the ones he had emptied. Only water; there was no more wine. The desert heat did not make it wise to drink strong spirits. They had left such things behind them among many jokes from the men of Rohan, who covered their dismay at their posting by promising to drink it all before their friends returned.

The silent brooding of the dunes oppressed Gimli. As day after day passed and their advance remained uneventful, he began to distrust the emptiness of the desert. 

He spent his mornings walking the perimeter of his camp. His people were strong, yet they would hide all but the worst wounds, and some of them were walking upon blistered feet. The sand crept in over the tops of their short boots. It could not be kept out. 

There was no water to spare for washing away the sand that ground their flesh raw. The feet must be bared and dried, then brushed clean and any wounds tended. He cared for the stricken dwarves himself, his own sore feet bandaged with strips of linen. Gimli had to ensure that none cut apart their tents to bind their feet. Though it seemed unlikely the tents would ever be needed again to block rainfall, they were needed for shade from the punishing sun, and some of the men whispered of wind-driven rains of sand that could peel the skin from flesh and bone.

These concerns and others occupied Gimli's mind, and he did not have much time to brood over the elf. 

The moon was full when they started. By the time it had poured out half its light, the water was running low and nearly all the mortals in the company were footsore and limping. Gimli scowled at the horizon. The sun was rising on his left hand, and already the sands had begun to shimmer like pools of water in the distance. He had soon learned not to trust his own eyes. This time, it seemed that he also saw a smudge of darkness on the dun-shaded horizon. As the sun strengthened and they walked forward, he thought he could see strange trees with thin, bare trunks and ragged tufts of green atop them, growing clustered around low buildings. He frowned, squinting.

"It is real," a soldier of Gondor reported eagerly to him. "The scouts say we will arrive after another night's march."

Gimli huffed thanks and trudged back to the center of his encampment, where the dwarves were pitching their tents and pouring sand out of their boots. He passed the word among them, pleased with the lightening of their mood. By the time he passed through them, they had begun to sing softly around their cook fires.

He paused on the ridge of a dune, overlooking the camps of men and gazing beyond to the elves, who spearheaded the company. There were fair elves and dark, all tall and slim. He could not have said if any of the fair-haired elves were Legolas. 

"How fare your folk?" Aragorn strolled towards him, boot-tops wrapped in cloth.

"They sing over their fires, and they do not complain." Gimli balanced his loyalty to his people against practical concerns. "Our water runs low, and they are footsore. Their morale will not last if the rumors are untrue."

"They are true. We will reach Katam in six hours' march."

"It seems strange we have seen no sign of our foes."

"The scouts report we are watched." Aragorn trudged up the ridge to join Gimli overlooking the camp. "I had worried we might be ambushed, but there was no good place for enemies to lie in wait."

"They will have us at their mercy when we ask for water," Gimli grunted. "Are there enough of us to take what we need by force?"

"If the oasis is full of soldiers, it will be a near thing. If there are more lurking beyond in the dunes, we could not." Aragorn shook his head. "But you assume the parley will fail."

Gimli grunted. "And you do not?"

"It does not pay to make such judgments before talking. That is the best way to make disaster come to pass." Aragorn glanced at him keenly. "But you are a king now, and you know the truth of this."

"I do." Gimli admitted, gruff. "And I will talk without judging, but with one hand on my axe."

"And I will talk with one hand on my sword." Aragorn squatted on his haunches, bringing his eyes level with Gimli's. "How fare you?" He laid stress on the final word, looking levelly at Gimli.

Gimli raised a brow. "Well enough."

Aragorn took Gimli's neutral answer as all the encouragement he required. "The elf means well. He does not understand the ways of your kind."

Gimli turned his face aside and spat into the sand. "I care not for his understanding."

"He cares much for you." 

Gimli scowled. "What of it?"

"You do not trust him as you once did." Aragorn remarked, blunt. 

Gimli bared his teeth. "What does that matter? I trust my axe, and that is all you should want of me. Let him keep to his bow, and you keep to your sword." He realized too late his hand was on his axe and his feet set for battle. Aragorn eyed him calmly.

"What would you do if I called the elf a fool and said he had no honor?"

Gimli growled without thought, stepping forward with hand clenched on axe-haft. Aragorn's eyes gleamed with amusement. "I understand the ways of axe and bow alike." He stood, stretching. "And if I spoke ill of you, the elf would also threaten me without thinking." 

Gimli flushed and dropped his hand, but Aragorn held his eye. "To my thinking, axe and bow are closer at heart than they may seem."

Gimli ignored his shame and met Aragorn's eye. "And what if they are? The axe can shoot arrows no more than the bow can cleave armor or rend stone." He turned, giving Aragorn no chance to answer, and slid down the face of the dune. Then he shuffled away to his tent, annoyed the sand would not let him stamp.

*****

They approached the oasis with caution. Their scouts drew back gradually until they rejoined the main party in order to avoid encounter with the Southrons. There was no pretense that the men of the west and their allies were unexpected. Parties of southerners mounted on camels flanked them at a distance, steering their path toward the oasis.

Gimli joined the captains at the rear of the vanguard. His people were to form the point of the right flank should a skirmish break out, with elves firing over their heads, and thus he and Legolas each stood at Aragorn's right hand.

"There are not many mounted men watching us," Legolas assured Aragorn. "I scouted our boundaries myself. We have watched the oasis since it came in sight. Perhaps two dozen men have followed our advance. No more."

Aragorn nodded, eyes wary, studying the oasis. "They have let us come here too readily," he murmured. "If our parley fails, we will not leave as simply as we have come."

Gimli grunted. "Said I not so before we ever entered the sands?"

Legolas laughed softly. "None of us will dispute that claim, my friend." He paused, shading his eyes. "Men ride forth from the gates now."

Soon Gimli too could see them, and he scowled, focusing on a particular man, who rode in a canopied sedan chair with four bearers. "His trappings make him their leader,” he observed. "What fool rides to greet an army of foes with only a dozen men at his back?"

"One who knows his foes must have water," Aragorn answered ruefully. "Come, Legolas, Gimli. We will ride to meet him."

Faramir and Eomer exchanged tense glances behind Aragorn's back. "I will ride too," Eomer stated, voice flat, and Faramir's jaw set.

"We should not send all our leaders out to be picked off by arrows."

"They have sent theirs. Legolas could kill the king now with a single shaft to the eye." Aragorn shrugged.

"He may be a pawn-- an orc in king's clothing, sent to lure you out."

"Perhaps." Aragorn picked up his helm. "Remain behind, my steward. We will be cautious."

Shortly he rode out with Legolas, Gimli, Eomer, and nine hand-picked troops chosen from among each of the companies: men, dwarves, and elves. Heat shimmered on the flat sands between them, and they set their feet carefully. Gimli envied Legolas, whose face remained cool and smooth, untroubled by the heat. His own brow dripped stinging sweat into his eyes and he could not wipe them beneath his helm.

The two parties rode within a stone's throw of one another and halted. Gimli noted Legolas's bow was already strung.

“I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, now called Elessar, King of Gondor.” Aragorn introduced himself politely. 

“I am Akbash. Your people would call me the king of these lands.” The leader was a Swerting, his skin a deep almond hue. "Why do you bring war onto our soil?" He wore a blue veil concealing the lower half of his face and a shallow wrapping of the same cloth that covered his hair. He spoke the common tongue of the west with a faint accent, but with all Aragorn's courtesy. No orc, then-- an educated man. "We do not greet invaders kindly."

"We do not invade." Aragorn answered calmly. "We are an embassy come to parley. You share a border with Gondor, and it would be well if our countries could work together in our common interest."

"You bring many men just to parley."

"We have come upon your territory in numbers because you gave no answer to our request. In the absence of assurance, it seemed wise to see to our safety." Again, Aragorn remained unshakeable and polite. "If you wonder whether we would take your lands, surely you must agree other parts of them would be more to an invading army's liking." He looked around the desert, eyes seeming to follow a huge dark bird that wheeled over the dunes-- a carrion bird, perhaps seeking some unfortunate creature that had the misfortune to be caught outside the oasis without water. "Yet this place seems good enough to me, if we must venture onto your lands for talk."

The Southron leader dismounted from his chair and stepped forward. "What would the King of Gondor ask of those who have nothing but sand?"

Gimli stirred, loosing his axe in its loop.

"That you respect the borders of Gondor as they were of old and stop the raids on our farmsteads. That you agree not to unite against Gondor or her allies or come against us in war. That you pledge friendship to the men of the west. That we may be allies and come to one another's side in times of war in time of need."

The leader regarded him without expression, ignoring the baking heat of the sun. Gimli tried to calculate how the headdress he wore was wound. It seemed an impossible tangle of narrow strips, and it looked as hot as his own helm, but without much protective value should the encounter come to blows. Perhaps there was a light helm concealed beneath the cloth.

"Of old, the Kings of Gondor demanded much in return for any consideration they would grant. Even if you do not, what would we gain from such an alliance? Trees to shade the sands? Water and grass for raising thirsty horses?" His voice was sharp, and held no friendliness. "Fields upon which to grow rich crops?"

"Trade rights. If we can come to terms in our parley, perhaps we will agree that your people may ship goods into Gondor without tax levied on your caravans or ships. We may be able to agree on free passage across the borders to both your merchants and herders, if they wish to trade." Aragorn stepped forward, past the front line of his honor guard. "As allies, we can teach you crafts your people may not have, or have forgotten. It is long since the men of Numenor--"

The Southron king showed sharp teeth in a smile. "The men of Numenor were brave sailors who demanded tribute for such things, then gave threats in return."

Aragorn conceded the point, bowing his head gracefully. "And yet, it was not so at first-- nor is it now."

"Those men who have accompanied you here may enter the oasis for parley. You may buy water for the rest at a small weight of silver per skin."

Gimli bared his teeth, displeased. The leader's eyes flickered to him. "Or you may turn back without water, and see how many of your troops survive the return to Gondor." 

"If your price is fair, we will pay." Aragorn lifted his voice. "Legolas, return to Faramir and tell him we will enter the oasis. I will send messengers to him every morning and evening. I will send water, also, if we may agree on a price."

Legolas ran lightly across the sand, and the Southrons' eyes followed him. "You have elves among you.” The king made a strange gesture, passing his hand before his face, his middle fingers folded down and covered by his thumb.

"They are our allies." Aragorn lifted his chin.

"We do not ally ourselves with his race."

Gimli growled softly, and Aragorn gave him a warning look. "I think you do not know elves. If you did, you would not judge them so carelessly."

Gimli subsided, reluctant. Legolas was already darting back across the sand, composure unruffled. He halted gracefully at Aragorn's side. "My lord Faramir wishes you success, King Elessar." Legolas bowed, and Gimli blinked. The elf had rarely offered such lavish deference. Perhaps he had overheard the Southron's words as he ran.

Aragorn smiled, benevolent, and together they followed the Southrons into the oasis. It was a smaller place than Gimli had thought. Its walls were white, carved out of the best stone to be found in this desert waste. Chalky and grainy at once, the stonework reflected the sun's glare and made him squint.


	6. Archer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Legolas makes an unexpected declaration and Gimli puts down a minor rebellion.

The southrons had built well, for men. The stone was smoothly cut and set in both angles and curves. Soaring domes perched on some of the stone dwellings that loomed next to tents and lean-tos inside the wide walls, and sweeping curves contained the cistern that lay in the center of the oasis. Gimli nodded grudging respect. The joints were tight enough to hold the water rather than letting it drain away into the gravelly soil. There were no dunes to be found. Most of the sand was kept swept away, saving only a few tiny drifts in isolated corners.

The scruffy trees were strange but pleasant, partly blocking the sun. Their leaves made a cool whisper in the breeze. Bushes grew at their feet, festooned with fierce thorns and small, waxy leaves. Gimli saw boys climbing the trees with the aid of linen slings, knocking down fruit, and women spreading the fruits on cloths to dry. He paid a round-eyed child a piece of silver for a small net bag of the dried fruits, and caught Legolas smiling at him from the corner of his eye. He huffed indignation and chewed one. It was fibrous but tasted sweet.

Legolas raised his brows, curious, and Gimli tossed him one of the fruits. He caught and tasted it, and his smile when their eyes met again was warm with pleasure. Gimli flushed and looked away. He tucked the bag into his belt and tried not to think of how wine distilled from the fruit might taste on the elf's tongue.

Gimli distracted himself by looking around the oasis. No armed men were visible, but he could see rows of the nasty humped beasts chewing fodder, veiled women walking from the cistern to their homes with clay jars of water atop their heads, huts made from dried tree fronds that supplemented the stone buildings, and sun-browned naked children running to and fro. He filled his eyes with interest. He was disappointed when they were led inside, though the relief from the heat was great inside the thick-walled stone dwelling.

"Break your fast with us," the king invited. They sat on cushions laid out upon the stone floor next to low tables. Gimli laughed, pleased with the arrangement and with the awkwardness of the elves and the men of Gondor as they tried to negotiate the unfamiliar feast. Gimli thought the king's eyes were shifty, and his bland smile seemed near mockery as he watched his guests struggle.

Women served sweet milk that tasted like nothing Gimli had ever imagined, more of the dried fruits, and succulent roast fowl. There was also tough dried meat, possibly goat. The company ate spicy vegetable pastes with herbs, scooping it up with bits of flat bread. There was good beer but no wine, and there was water in plenty. Gimli drank eagerly, but let none spill over his beard to show his pleasure to his host. He had learned that in the desert, one must let pass the customs of polite dining and conserve precious liquid. If his host took offense, so be it.

The women wore far less than those he had seen outdoors. He guessed they were servants, or worse; they had the timid manner of beasts mistreated. It was not his place to judge, though he slit his eyes at Aragorn, wondering how the king could see fit to parley with men who would make slaves of their own kind.

Aragorn remained calm, eating and drinking sparingly. 

When the meal was done, they were led to quarters by a foot soldier. The honor guard were given low flat-roofed huts thatched with dried fronds from the trees. Their walls were made of hanging mats, woven from more of the fronds and swinging slowly in the breeze. 

Aragorn gave a nod to Eomer, Legolas, and Gimli, signaling them to accompany him. They continued past the soldier’s barrack, entering a low stone hall with a single arch at its center. Inside it was dark, with only a few lamps lit. So close to the cistern, the air felt cool and wet. A low hall stretched past the arch, connecting with the long stone lodging that formed the east wall of the city center.

"In this hall we shelter tradesmen and guests. Your nobles may lodge here," their guide gestured. “There are rooms enough for four."

And five of them. Gimli shrugged and stumped back outside without further discussion. He preferred to be with his kin, though what he knew of Eomer's bed-habits with his lord meant there would often be a room left vacant.

There was enough space in the dwarves' section of the tents for another bedroll, and Gimli plopped down, relieved to be out of the sun. He pulled the bag of fruits from his belt and chewed one thoughtfully. He would be away from the elf for a time. Perhaps that would allow him a measure of peace. 

Or not. A group of Southrons were emerging from the dwelling already, Legolas with them. The sun caught on his fair hair and shone on the bow of Lórien, strung and slung over his back. Some of the southrons bore bows and quivers as well. Eomer and Aragorn followed in their wake, murmuring; of the others there was no sign.

Gimli hoisted himself to his feet and followed after, coming to a halt under a stand of the tufted trees. He amused himself while the men murmured by trying to picture an ent fashioned after such a tree. He supposed there might be such a thing, but it would be a strange marvel to behold.

Against the wall stood a single bale of shorn goat fur, as tall as Gimli and as wide; a few arrow shafts stuck out of it. "Nay, make it a true contest," Legolas spoke smoothly as he came within Gimli's hearing. "One of those fruits at a hundred paces." A murmur arose, and the men looked between one another.

"Accepted," a tall man stated flatly and began to walk off the distance; several followed him.

"Gimli." Legolas called. "I will need someone to hold my target."

Gimli huffed but strode forward readily. Legolas would not miss the eye of a crow at two hundred paces even on a windy night. Rather, he would whisper to the wind, and it would carry his arrow straight and true. "I will hold it," he agreed. The men murmured, but they handed him a fat-bottomed fruit hardly larger than his thumb. It smelled similar to the one he had eaten earlier, but this one was fresh.

"A waste of good fruit, elf," Gimli grumbled as he started for the bale. The others moved back to the line for shooting. Two men walked with Gimli and stood to the side, waiting to judge the hit.

He stood before the bale and held the fruit between his fingers, taking no particular care to move it far from his body. He stilled as Legolas drew the bow. There was a whisper in the air and his fingers stung ever so slightly.

"Ah!" A cry rose from the judges, and one stepped forward and reached for Gimli's hand. He put it out-- there was juice on his fingers, and it was red.

"A moment." He pulled his hand back, put his fingers into his mouth, and licked the juice away. He held his hand out again, clean and undamaged.

The men looked between themselves, unspeaking.

One called down the range in a language Gimli did not know. As Legolas made way for the other archer, Gimli made a show of hastening away from the target, grumbling loudly. It was one thing to trust himself to the elf, but quite another to trust a man. 

The judges set up a stake against the bale and put the fruit atop it. Gimli laughed; there were none of the men brave enough to hold a target for their champion. 

The man strung his bow, aimed, and shot. His arrow sped swift and true and sent the fruit spinning. A judge picked it up. A chunk was missing from its side, but Legolas's target had been hit full on.

A whisper went up as the judges shook their heads; the losing archer stood still for a long moment, then unstrung his bow and offered Legolas a curt bob of his head, which the elf returned more graciously.

Gimli stumped back toward the gathering, where a loose circle had formed around Legolas to congratulate him. He pushed his way to the front rank, only to find Legolas frowning. A woman knelt at his feet. She wore a few translucent rags that made Gimli blink, then cough and look away in haste.

"Claim your prize." Akbash stood there, looking unruffled in spite of the defeat of his archer. "You have won her fairly and well."

"You are most generous, but I cannot accept this prize." Legolas unstrung his bow gracefully, raising the slave girl by one hand; his face was troubled. "My own mate would not accept her in our household."

Akbash laughed. "Then tell her that your wishes matter, not hers. Women are easily governed."

"But my mate is not female," Legolas spoke smoothly, voice soft with apology. "I would fear for the slave's life, should I bring a rival before him."

Gimli's amusement suddenly faded; he stared anxiously at Legolas, wary of the direction his words had taken.

A whisper went through the Southron king's men; his face hardened. "You are fortunate indeed, then, that you need not leave your mate at home. For surely another male elf would have accompanied you on this journey."

"My mate is indeed here, but he is not an elf." Serene, Legolas passed the girl's hand into a waiting guard's. 

Gimli growled low in his throat, annoyed, as Eomer coughed to cover a smile. The damnable elf had best claim the king of Rohan, or even Aragorn, not--

"Here is my mate." Legolas stepped across the circle to stand beside Gimli. Another murmur arose, this one sharper, startled. 

"You make a game of me." Cold with anger, Akbash motioned guards forward.

"I do not." Legolas sank to one knee before Gimli, who tried not to panic. He felt his hand tighten over the top of his axe, but he could not deny the elf's claim, knowing it would very likely undermine the parley and bring the deaths of many.

"Gimli." Legolas rested his hand under Gimli's ear, fingers sliding into his hair. He tangled his own language with words from Gimli's native tongue. "Behold! The Ruler of Aglarond. I swear him to be a stalwart warrior, my swordbrother, a valiant wielder of axe and hammer, my heart's love, a true son of Mahal, whom my people call Aulë!"

Gimli understood only a scattering of the Sindarin words, but combined with the Khuzdul, they were enough. He gulped, filling his lungs, adrenaline and desire blinding him to all but the awareness of Legolas tilting his head, his fingertips stroking Gimli's cheek softly, his breath on Gimli's face. Then the silk of Legolas's lips found his, pushing forward with assurance.

Gimli closed his eyes and opened his mouth, and let himself sink to drown in hopeless bliss. Legolas's tongue tasted of sunlight made liquid; his mouth was warm as the morning in Lothlórien, and his scent as fresh. 

Legolas's hands lay gentle upon his face, and every instant of his kiss humbled the radiance of Galadriel as a diamond humbles coal. Gimli clutched silken hair inside his fists, and tasted salt, and knew not which of them wept. Their lips clung and parted and touched again; breath passed between them. Gimli grew dizzy from want of air and only Legolas's arms held him upright; he had lost his reckoning of time.

All were watching, but he could not care, though Legolas flayed him open like a huntsman gutting a hare.

Too soon, Legolas broke away and gently laid his forehead against Gimli's; Gimli felt him trembling-- or maybe it was he who shook; he could not tell. 

A rasp of metal startled him. Loosing Legolas with one hand he snarled, half-drawing his axe by reflex, and fixed the Southron king with narrowed eyes-- to discover the man had not drawn his sword, but sheathed it.

"Your pardon. I did not intend to dishonor you or your mate." He looked as though the words pained him. 

The world fell in about Gimli once more, dozens of eyes staring at him in wonder, many of them his own companions'. His other hand was still buried in the elf's luxuriant hair. Legolas's cheek lay against his, the elf's hands rested upon his shoulders, and Legolas's narrow chest rose and fell swiftly. 

Aragorn stood back and stared at them both, his eyes thoughtful. As Gimli snatched his hand from the elf's head and flushed hot with shame, the king’s expression grew sad; Gimli looked away and forced himself to step back.

The girl was led away. Gimli resettled his axe in his belt and tried not to seem out of breath.

"Your pardon for our clumsiness in fixing your lodgings," Akbash continued smoothly. "We know little of your races. To repay your victory in this contest, the mistake will be amended, and a larger bed moved to your chamber so the two of you may sleep together." 

Only Gimli heard the soft noise in Legolas's throat and understood it for dismay. The elf's distress heartened him strangely.

"That is a kind thought," Gimli bowed from the waist. Perhaps it would not be a great trouble, given that Legolas did not sleep-- or perhaps his mind was overthrown, ravished by the elf's sweet tongue. 

The thought served to rouse him from his stupor. A dark muttering filled the courtyard, and he could hear both dwarvish and elvish voices raised in dismay, their tones distinct among the mocking laughter of men. None of the groups sounded pleased.

King Akbash led Aragorn away for parley and the group began to disperse, ragged knots of muttering companions casting dark glances at Legolas and Gimli.

Gimli entertained a brief wish to put his axe through the elf's skull. However, such pleasures must be set aside for the moment. If he did not reassure his people in haste, he might find himself deposed, or worse.

"Later, elf." He let his gruff tone warn Legolas there would be sharp words coming. Then he stamped away, gathering his dwarves with a scowl and marching them back to their dwelling. 

"What is this, Gimli?" Gyda's cousin Buri shouldered roughly forward when they halted. 

"No threat to your kin," Gimli gritted his teeth. "The elf did not want a slave, so he chose to mislead the men."

"But why choose you? Why not King Elessar or one of his kinsmen?"

Gimli hesitated, aware his response had power either to enflame dwarvish resentment of the elves, or quell it. He did not wish to rekindle old hatred. 

"The elf and I are friends. Shieldbrothers. We traveled together for many days, and we often made jests between us."

"So you are a joke to him." Buri did not give up so easily.

"That is not so." Gimli took a deep breath. "Behind the jest, there is friendship. He knew he could trust me to protect him, as I would trust him to protect me, were our positions reversed."

"But my cousin--"

"Is well-pleased I will not sire a dwarvish son who might threaten her own son's right to inherit!"

That quieted Buri, at least for the nonce, but another voice spoke out, less boisterous and more bold. "Shieldbrothers often share blankets and more. You kissed him eagerly enough. Do you mean to tell us this is so between you and the elf?" The final word dripped venom.

Gimli felt his knuckles go white as he gripped his belt. "Aye." He caught Nain's eyes with his. "And what of it? Gyda knows, and is content. Thrasi is my rightful heir. Naught else concerns you, Nain son of Narm!"

"I would laugh to see that haughty elf speared on the end of a dwarf's pike," a ribald mutter caught his ear, and Gimli scowled at the remaining dwarves. This day’s business would be known to all as soon as any soldier returned to the camp.

"I will hear no mockery spoken of my shieldbrother, no more than you would of your own. Stand before me and say again what I have heard, if you wish to argue the matter." Gimli removed his gauntlets and let them fall to the earth. It was a crude tactic, but if he must fight with his fists to reclaim their respect, so be it.

"He may not choose to stand forth, but I will." Nain son of Narm stepped forward and began to shoulder out of his own armor.

"Very well." Nain had two inches on Gimli, and he was lean and quick, but Gimli had worked hard since the war at smithcraft and stonecutting. His muscles were solid as the metal he mined. 

Shedding his armor and drawing a deep breath, Gimli waded into the fight, fists leading.


	7. Sandstorm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Legolas tells the story of Tauriel and is interrupted at an inopportune moment.

Night came swiftly like the dropping of a curtain over the desert, briefly clothing the dunes in shades of lavender and purple. The stars emerged one by one, hard and cold in the sky. Satisfied he had quelled his dwarves for the nonce, Gimli left them to sit apart and smoke, watching the changing colors.

"Trouble among your people?" Aragorn approached, apparently with the same thought in mind, no longer clad for parley. He had removed his crown and royal trappings, and he held his empty pipe in his hand. 

Gimli huffed, unsurprised to be sought out. "Nothing I couldn't handle."

"I suspect the elf caught them by surprise."

"Your suspicions are correct." Surrendering to the inevitable conversation, Gimli fumbled in his gear until he found his own pipe, then scooted aside to let Aragorn join him on the rock.

"I suspect the elf caught you by surprise, as well."

"Tell me, is it common among men to enjoy goading a companion with unhelpful observations?" Gimli lit his pipe and scowled into the bowl as he puffed to ensure it was well-kindled.

"Common enough. But I mean to help, not harm." He eyed Gimli professionally. "Let me tend those cuts."

"They are nothing. No more than I would have from a day's mining," Gimli protested, but did not try to evade Aragorn's hands. He submitted to being daubed with herbs and salves, all while still trying to smoke his pipe. “How went the day’s parley?”

“Not well. The price for water is steep. I believe King Akbash means to stall the negotiations as long as he can. He can easily use the desert to wring concessions from us while we pay him dearly for water. He is not openly aggressive, but I judge he does not truly represent local interests. He is an Easterling with memories of Sauron’s false promises. He has little interest in being a good neighbor.”

Gimli snorted. “It is much as we feared from the beginning.” He scowled as Aragorn cleaned a sore spot. "I mislike it here. This Akbash smiles from one corner of his mouth and lies from the other. He enslaves his own people, and would dispose of women as if they were worth nothing." He spat. "There can be no parley with these dogs!"

“You are right." Aragorn sighed. "I had hoped we might find more reasonable leaders in the south than in the east. Yet I owed it to my people to make a diplomatic effort in good faith. I would not start a fight if none is needed.” Aragorn shrugged, wry. “Much like you, I suspect. Yet your face shows you have fought hard today. To subdue a rival's attempt to unseat you, or to defend the elf's honor?" He tore a new bit of cloth dabbed it in a pot of unguent.

Gimli scowled, flinching away from the stinging salve. "Must it be one or the other? I fought to assure my people I am still fit to be their king. No king of dwarves would allow a shieldbrother to be mocked in his hearing."

"They tested you."

"Yes."

"I suppose you passed?" Aragorn studied Gimli with doubt. "Your eye is black and swollen shut, and will be worse by morning."

"You should see the other dwarf." In truth, Gimli had taken the worst of the fight, but his strength and endurance stood him in good stead until Nain tired and gave him the opening he needed. In the end, only Gimli had been left standing to give his rival quarter.

"The elf loves you." Aragorn's tone was neutral.

Gimli cleared his throat and spat into the sand. "Of that I have no doubt." He shot a sidelong glance toward his friend. "Not since Lothlórien have I been in doubt of it."

Aragorn nodded, re-packing his pouch of salves and medicines. "But perhaps you feel you love more deeply."

Gimli rolled his eyes unto the heavens, imploring Mahal for patience. "What of it? That is not uncommon in this world, I understand."

"But not everyone who feels deeply is a dwarf, especially not a dwarf who feels thus for an elf. You should--"

"Dwarvish ways in courtship are a matter of choice, not of necessity. I could choose elsewhere if I had a mind." Gimli interrupted him, surly.

"But you do not." 

"I need not use my cock each day to have a successful life. I rule a prosperous kingdom. I have a wife and an heir and am rich enough. I have seen marvels few dwarves will ever see. I have friends and allies the likes of which many dwarves will never know." Gimli heard the bluster in his own voice and knew it for the weak defense it was. 

"You have much; I do not dispute that. But you shield yourself against even your friends, as though you guard a deep wound. One that, perhaps, the elf may wish to heal."

"How I guard my heart from him is my affair." Gimli drew deeply on his pipe and coughed as a cinder singed his throat. The weed burned too hot.

"Are you happy?" Aragorn spoke the words lightly, launching them directly through the fatal chink in Gimli's armor, his face kind.

Gimli rose with dignity, tapping the dottle out of his pipe. It soiled the pale stone. Who knew when rain would ever come to wash the stain away? Perhaps wind would do as well, in time.

"I am content enough, on days when the elf's absence allows me to forget." He faced Aragorn squarely, seeing only his old friend, not the majesty of Minas Tirith. "Have you no regrets or pains of your own?"

Aragorn's face stilled. "I do." 

"As do we all." Gimli tucked his pipeweed pouch away. "But each morning comes anew despite them, and each day holds its own share of both trouble and joy. Let that suffice to answer your concerns." Before Aragorn could speak again, he turned on his heel and walked back to the lodging, where his room and bed awaited-- and Legolas. It took all his courage to go in.

The elf sat on the floor, his legs folded, seeming as comfortable there as in any chair. Gimli barely made it through the door before the elf leaped up and hurried to him, frowning with concern. "You have been fighting." 

"A keen observation." Gimli set aside his heavy pack and began to doff his armor. At least, he removed as much as he deemed prudent in the heart of an enemy camp. He set his breastplate, greaves, and gauntlets neatly in a corner, then laid his axe against the wall beside the bed. He kept his chainmail shirt on him and scrambled up onto the edge of the bed to pry off his boots. He did not feel equal to light talk and meant to sleep, if he could. However, the elf was in no mood for silence.

"Your people gave you trouble because of me." Legolas gazed at him, troubled.

"Yours sounded none too pleased, either. I daresay they confronted you using hard words for weapons."

"They did. My kind prefers talk to fisticuffs."

Gimli shrugged, peeling off his socks, relieved by the touch of air on his sore feet. "It is no worse than the irritation of desert sand in my boots." 

"They laid hands upon their king."

"It is in keeping with dwarvish custom. If your brother dwarf offends you, you may challenge him to fight to settle the argument. If Nain had truly meant to dethrone me, he would have challenged me to duel with axes rather than fists." Gimli lay back on the bed, staring up at its filmy canopy. "He hoped to increase my shame with defeat in battle. He failed. I sent him to his tent on a litter, nursing a lump the size of a hen’s egg on his head."

Legolas appeared at his side without a sound, as though he had never moved. He gazed down at Gimli's battered face, frowning. "May I bathe your hurts and tend them?"

"King Elessar has already done so." 

"I am become a source of shame to you." Legolas reached out, his slender hand hovering near Gimli's face, then withdrew it.

Gimli might have cursed his own clumsy words. "Many of my people see it so. They are mistaken, as I instructed Nain." He straightened up again, moving painfully with stiff muscles. "I would not have told my subjects of our private affairs. Yet now it is known, I will manage them as I must."

"Does Gyda know?"

"She does." Gimli laid his palm over his throbbing eye. "Before we wed, Gyda knew I had no bodily desire for her. She has none for me; her chosen mate was slain in the wars with Mordor. Yet she is of Durin's line, and she was not averse to having her son rule one day in Aglarond. Thrasi's father was my uncle, my father's close kinsman. I hope one day Thrasi's deeds will prove him worthy of the throne." The constant talk made his head ache.

"Take off your mail and I will soothe your weary muscles with scented oil." 

"I never remove my mail shirt in the presence of enemies. Not you, the Southrons," Gimli amended with haste. The idea of Legolas's hands on him would set his blood aflame if he thought on it. He heaved himself to his feet, reaching for his boots. "I should go find food."

"A moment, Gimli." Legolas's hand halted him. The sober look on the elf's face stopped him when he might have shrugged away and continued onward. "You have been honest with me. I too must tell you a truth, one I should have revealed long ago."

Gimli shoved his feet into his boots and braced himself, hand unconsciously moving to the haft of his axe. "Speak, then." He squared his shoulders and set his jaw. He guessed this would be the moment when Legolas revealed he was not free to give his heart. Regardless whether his troth was plighted to a loveless union or whether he loved an elf-lass, the outcome was the same.

Legolas turned, striding slowly across the room, where he reached the wall and then turned back. After the second time he did so, Gimli realized with some surprise the elf was pacing, his composure so ruffled he must release his energy using more than words. 

"I need hardly tell you of your own family history-- you have heard all your life of the thirteen dwarves who reclaimed Erebor, and of their fates since. But I know a thing concerning one of them that I daresay is not discussed among your kinsmen." He shook his head, distressed. "The secret is not mine to tell, but both those concerned are far beyond our reach: one rests in the halls of Aulë, the other…" Legolas gestured with despair, starting anew.

"When I said our friendship was the first between dwarf and elf in centuries, I spoke a falsehood." He bit the words out as though they pained him. "There was one other, which arose between the dwarf Kíli, sister-son of Thorin Oakenshield, and Tauriel, my father's best captain. She was my friend and companion, and an officer in my father's guard. I would not have minded if she had become more to me than a comrade in arms. But she seemed disinclined. I watched as…" he hesitated, choosing his words, and Gimli bided in silence, waiting. 

"Attraction, then more, developed between Tauriel and the dwarf Kíli, despite my attempts to discourage it. In spite of all obstacles, I believe they would one day have coupled, had Kíli not been slain in the Battle of Five Armies.

"Kíli's death proved a grief too great for Tauriel to bear. My father banned her from his realm, meaning to punish her for her indiscretion, but all punishment paled next to her loss, and his effort was wasted. She would stay in Middle Earth no longer, but set out for the Havens. She told me she meant to travel to the Undying Lands in hopes of joining Kíli in the halls of Aulë. I could not dissuade her."

Legolas stopped, fixing Gimli with pain-dimmed eyes. "In that moment in the caves when I feared you dead, lost to the water and the dark, I learned the measure of both my love and my fear. I remembered Tauriel's grief, and because you are mortal, as was Kíli, I tried to deny my feelings. Yet they were so strong I could not banish them, and all I succeeded in doing was causing us to suffer."

Gimli stood very still, taken so much off-guard by the elf's words he had none left of his own. Dazed, he thought of his father, now white-bearded, settled comfortably in his smithy far below the peak of Erebor. Had his father known the truth of Kíli and Tauriel? The dwarves never spoke of her, just as Legolas guessed. What would Glóin say when he learned of Gimli's attachment to an elf-- to the son of his bitter enemy, Thranduil of the Woodland Realm?

The silence grew heavy, and Gimli roused himself with an effort. "You have given me much to think on." 

"Little enough. You have made it quite clear you have no wish to accept my heart now I am prepared to offer it." Legolas bowed his head. "I will not trouble you further with unwanted advances, but I wished to make the reason for my rudeness quite clear."

"Legolas," Gimli began, growling with fond exasperation, stepping forward. Before he could finish, the muffled crunch of shattering stoneware interrupted him. He and Legolas jerked, startled. Shouting followed, and bellowing of camels.

“Trouble,” the elf said flatly.

Gimli was already reaching for his armor, hurrying to don all the pieces. 

“What is the matter?" Legolas called through the door, but Gimli could not make out a response. The breeze had risen, hissing through the trees. 

“They warn of _simoom_. A sandstorm is rising,” the elf explained. “Stay here. I will go and warn our troops.” He darted out, letting the door swing shut.

“Sandstorm?” Gimli frowned. He was familiar with sandstone. The stuff was a bastard rock at best, unstable and treacherous. A sandstorm sounded little better. 

He pulled on his gauntlets and put his head through the door. Grit gave the wind a bite and made his eyes water. He scowled and went back inside, ripping off a section of sheet and wrapping it around his face, then replacing his helmet.

He went out again, forgetting his axe in his haste. Women and children scurried about, avoiding the shards of an earthenware crock someone had dropped in the street. Many people carried chickens or towed goats on tethers, taking the animals to shelter. 

The sun had set, but there were no stars in the east, only a looming darkness that ate more of the sky even as Gimli watched. He scowled. The wind did not seem strong enough to make the sand strip flesh from bone, but the dust and grit would choke breath in the throat and abrade unshielded eyes.

He must go to help his people.

Gimli hurried in Legolas’s wake, eyes fixed on the fires of the camp. He had made it perhaps halfway to the nearest when the storm struck in earnest, a wavefront of dust that swept past him like an ocean tide and left him floundering in darkness. Gimli kept plodding stubbornly, drawing a fold of his cloak over his face. 

The dark had never been an enemy; he had always been able to find his way… but this was not a cavern. The desert had no features he could use to orient himself, only shifting sands. There were no echoes, only shouts. He turned toward the sound, expecting to reach the camp, but the voices seemed to grow fainter no matter how he turned.

Then the voices ceased. Gimli realized the ground was descending rapidly under his feet, and his boots rang on stone, not sand. He was lost. As soon as he reached a level spot, he stopped walking. He swore loud and long, but there was no help for it. He had no water skin with him and only a half-pouch of dried dates hanging on his belt. 

He must ride out the storm in hopes that he could climb from this place when it had passed and find the oasis or the camp. Failing that, he might find his way using the sun or stars. 

Gimli turned his back to the prevailing winds and sat down. He tucked his hood over his face, then laid his head on his knees, settling in to wait.

*****

The camp was in turmoil when Legolas arrived just ahead of the dust. 

“Go inside your tents and lash them shut!” He raised his voice. “Wrap your faces! Do not wander outside your tents, not even to make water!”

He hurried to the lines of pack animals, gathering a dozen elves as he went. “We must cover their faces,” Legolas ordered. “Use your cloaks and shirts, even your breeches. Anything you find to hand. The wind is not strong enough to burn your skin. When the storm comes, crouch down and shelter against a beast. Do not try to return to camp or you may be lost!”

They tended the horses and the goats, but the camels seemed to need no help, their eyes shut and nostrils pinched to slits. 

“Bed down here,” he insisted to his elves as they worked, and when the last horse was tended, he found his shelter against the towering side of a rough-haired camel. The dust washed past, so thick the nearby campfires seemed only dim glows in the distance. Then even that vanished, leaving the dust and the night.

Morning brought no relief, only diffuse light that rendered the world a haze of brown and dun. The camel lay patient, huddled on its haunches. Native to this place, it knew best what to do, so Legolas followed its lead, remaining tucked at its side. He pushed heaps of sand and dust away from himself as they accumulated. The camel’s broad back caused sand to drift deeply around him. There was no real threat, only the discomfort of breathing filtered dust and the boredom of waiting.

His thoughts shifted to Gimli. It was good to know the dwarf was safe in the oasis, indoors, with food and water close by. He found himself looking forward to their next meeting. Gimli had growled at him, but his eyes had not been angry, and a flicker of hope awoke in Legolas’s breast. Perhaps he might yet win Gimli’s heart, now that the whole truth was known between them. 

He coughed, tucking himself closer to the camel. If they had not been interrupted, he thought Gimli might have forgiven him. In his surly mood, the dwarf might have tugged Legolas down to him by the hair. He would have tasted faintly of copper from his split lip and of pipeweed smoke, his favorite Longbottom Leaf. He might have borne Legolas down on the bed and climbed atop him, the better to lay claim to his elf.

Legolas smiled under the cloth that swathed his face. Though most elves thought dwarves squat and ugly, Gimli did not think himself so. He was attractive by the standards of dwarves, confident in his comeliness. He would have stripped off his mail, baring muscles honed to gleaming perfection by axe and hammer. Legolas thought him beautiful, healthy and strong, full of the fleeting vigor and strength of mortals, so much less serene and passive than elves. Perhaps it was because they must strive fill their brief years with life rather than letting long eons pass by, carrying them along. 

With that philosophy to guide him, Gimli would fill their too-brief time together with enthusiasm and vitality. Legolas was willing to waste no more years on fears and regrets. It might be thought unseemly for an elf of his age to indulge in the pleasures of the flesh, but Legolas had no plans to deny himself, should Gimli prove willing. He laughed softly to himself. It would be pleasant indeed to test some of the ideas he had developed during their long years apart. Assuming, of course, Gimli would allow it.

Legolas squinted toward the sky, trying to guess the position of the rising sun, but there was only the implacable blur of dust and sand. These storms might last hours or days. He wished he had someone to talk to other than the camel.

“We should return to Gondor,” he told it. “Our efforts here are wasted.” The camel did not answer, remaining still and implacable, its broad, flat face turned away from the wind. Legolas stroked its neck and went back to waiting.

It was dusk by the time the dust began to settle. Legolas blinked and wiped caked mud from his lashes, shifting. The camel blinked at him, its long eyelashes similarly soiled, so he wiped its eyes carefully with his sleeve.

“Thank you for the shelter, my friend.” He rose, stretching. His elves had remained with the beasts as he commanded. They did likewise, shaking showers of grit out of their hair and what remained of their clothing. They went about, raising puffs of soft dust wherever they walked, and removed the shields from the animals’ faces.

“The beasts will need water and fodder,” Legolas said. “Then we must make a count of the troops to ensure none have been lost.”

Duty occupied much of the evening. By the time Legolas returned to the oasis, he longed for a bath. Dust lay thick in his hair, smeared all over his skin. Everywhere he could feel grit. He tasted it even between his teeth.

However, when he reached his lodging, it was empty. Frowning, Legolas went back out. Aragorn had gone to the camp and he could find no rumor of Gimli anywhere in the oasis, so he decided to return to camp and check there again. 

As he walked, he passed a dwarf shuffling through the sand. “Where is Gimli?”

“In the oasis. I am to fetch him.”

Legolas frowned. “I was just at our lodging, and I have sought him among both the Southrons and our people. He is not there.” Could he have gone to speak to the Southron king, or perhaps he was seeking Aragorn…?

“He is not in the camp, either. None have seen him.”

“None?” Legolas’s voice sharpened. “Let us seek him together.”

A frantic hour later, Gimli was still missing. Legolas scowled at the desert, which lay pale and still under the rising moon. Gimli had not stayed put as Legolas told him; it was the only answer. He must have tried to reach the camp and become lost in the storm. 

But why had the dwarf not returned now the storm was past? He might have fallen and injured himself, or perhaps he had wandered so far he could not see his way back to the oasis once the storm ended. The entire landscape had shifted. New dunes rose where none had stood before. The desert would be a trackless wilderness with no shade or water.

Legolas stared out into the dunes as Aragorn came near, his face grave. 

“We will find him. He would not have wandered far.”

“I should not have left him.”

“You did as you must. If not for you, we might have lost many of the pack animals. We will need them for the homeward journey.”

“Can we mount a torch upon a pole to use as a mark? I would seek him in the desert.”

“It would be best to wait until morning. If you lose sight of your landmark, you could become lost as well. The dunes shift constantly, and you cannot keep to a straight line among them. Once you leave the road, it is impossible to navigate. Turn aside once to find an easier path, and before you realize it, you are walking in the opposite direction from the one you intended, and within half an hour, even your tracks will vanish behind you.” Aragorn paused. “But you know this as well as I.”

“He took no food or water with him and he left his axe behind.”

“Legolas.” Aragorn laid a hand on his arm. “Wait until morning, _mellon nîn_. King Akbash has agreed to have his men help with our search.”

Legolas closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then nodded. Casting a final reluctant glance at the desert, he followed Aragorn back into the oasis and returned to his room, where Gimli’s axe lay propped next to the bed, the only remaining sign he had ever been there.

Legolas took the axe in his hands and knelt, lifting up a plea to Elbereth. “Watch over my beloved,” he asked. “Please guide him back to me.”


	8. Search

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elves need to learn they should always look inside the barrels.

Gimli dozed fitfully through the roasting heat of the day, waking now and then to stir and shake away the accumulated drifts of dust. He wished he’d had the sense to bring a skin of water. His mouth was parched. Sweating didn’t help, but he couldn’t stop. He could only wait out the storm and hope to find the oasis quickly after it was done. It could not be far.

As the sun sank in the west, the dust storm finally began to settle. Gimli wiped his face, smearing dirt and sweat, and stood up, shaking himself. He coughed mightily and spat, wrinkling his nose.

He stood in a low, narrow place. Tall fluted sandstone cliffs enclosed the flat, dusty surface where he had stopped to weather the storm. It looked as though some long-vanished river had once flowed here, eating its way swiftly into the insubstantial ground before it found the sea and vanished altogether. Gimli scowled. Before now he would have wagered his axe the desert around the oasis was flat and featureless for miles. From above, the shifting lines of the dunes concealed this low place as if it did not exist.

He was lucky he had come here the way he had. He might easily have broken his legs, had he fallen from the verge of the cliffs. 

He turned slowly in a circle, blinking grit out of his watering eyes. The stone walls had shielded him from the worst of the scouring sand, but the storm had left heaps of loose dust lying everywhere, stirring up to choke him as he moved. The place made no sense. The constant desert winds should have filled this wadi swiftly, leaving only the rolling surface of the dunes in its wake.

He flinched, startled by a creaking sound and a dwarvish voice lifted in a curse.

“It looks a job of work, lads. We’ll be shoveling for hours.”

He glanced around, but there was nowhere to hide. His hand flew to his belt, and he squeezed his eyes shut in dismay. His axe was not with him. He had left it by the bed in his haste, thinking the storm was no enemy he could battle.

Dwarves and men emerged from a crude wooden doorway set into the stone at the end of the dry riverbed, some carrying shovels and others pushing barrows. Gimli faced them. They blinked at him with surprise.

“I am glad to see you,” he lied, glad the dwarves had spoken Khuzdul rather than the Southron tongue, which was unknown to him. He answered them similarly. “I have lost my way in the storm. Will you lend me water and return me to my friends at the oasis? I can reward you with gold.”

A spate of unknown words answered, the men cackling at his incomprehension. Two advanced, drawing swords. The dwarves hung back, shovels in hand. Perhaps they were unwilling to attack a kinsman, perhaps merely cautious. 

The scarred, notched steel of the swords destroyed Gimli’s hope of rescue. These were brigands of some sort, used to fighting. Perhaps they thought to ransom him. If so, they would give him food and water to ensure he survived long enough to earn their profit.

Gimli weighed his alternatives. He could not run fast enough to outdistance long-legged men given such a short lead, and he could not fight their swords with his fists. If he survived capture, he might escape and return to the oasis. Legolas and Aragorn would soon miss him and scour the desert until he was found. The elf could pinpoint a mouse fart on a windy night; Gimli would quickly be rescued. None of this rabble could stand before his companions. Even the dwarves wore no mail and were armed only with their shovels.

He raised his hands to surrender and let the men bind him with scratchy hemp rope. He kept his muscles flexed, hoping to gain some slack in his bonds.

The dwarves stood aside, impassive, as the men shoved him indoors. He heard muted whispers. 

“It is the traitor dwarf of Gondor, the one who lies with the filthy dog of an elf.” 

“May his beard wither!” 

Gimli winced. No hope of finding an ally among them, then. He lifted his chin and walked with pride that belied his bonds, waiting patiently for his eyes to adapt to the dim.

The passage was rough-hewn and a few smoky torches left smudges of soot on the walls. He judged it no mine, barely a rabbit scraping off the channel eroded by water. A few chambers had been gouged into the earth directly off the main hall. One held provisions and water, and two had filthy bedrolls scattered on the floor. Only the chamber at the end of the hall boasted a solid door, but he could not guess what it concealed. The men argued, and Gimli guessed they were trying to decide where to keep him. At last they poured a measure of water into his mouth, then bundled him into an empty storage barrel, hammering the lid down tight.

Gimli sighed, thinking wry thoughts of his father’s escape from the Woodland Realm. Then a barrel represented salvation. Now it was merely a prison. Fate had a dry sense of humor, it seemed. 

At least there was a crack in the lid so he could breathe, though the reek of salted herring nearly suffocated him. He might be able to force the top open by ramming his head against it, but the plan would have to wait for a better opportunity, such as his friends’ arrival. If he tried now, the brigands would only hear him and put a full barrel on top of this one, or take him out and stow him somewhere even worse, leaving him with a headache on top of everything else.

“Be quick, elf,” Gimli muttered to himself, and began trying to twist his wrists free of the ropes.

*****

As the first rays of sun peeked over the rim of the desert, whistles and signals began to ring through the air. Men, dwarves, and elves set out to quarter the ground along a grid of Legolas’s devising, signaling to one another. Legolas stood atop the stone wall of the oasis, frowning down at the hive of activity that surrounded him, searchers radiating out from the settlement like spokes from a wheel’s hub. He did not like the arrangement, but King Akbash’s men dominated the search. They had taken the southern portion of the desert as their own, claiming particular familiarity with the treacherous terrain they claimed was to be found there. 

“They speak of bottomless quicksand pits that can swallow a camel or wagon, leaving no sign. They say we will not find him,” Legolas fretted to Aragorn, who waited at his side. “We should have searched at once, on our own. I do not trust these men.” 

“Do not despair.” Aragorn looked careworn despite his calm words; Gimli was dear to him, too. “Quicksand requires water to form, and there was no rain in this storm. If there were commonly standing water to be found toward the south, we would see grasses and scrub growing around it.”

“You do not trust our hosts any more than I,” Legolas lowered his voice, switching to the Sindarin tongue to baffle southron ears. 

“No,” Aragorn admitted. “The king has no intention of making peace. He delays us for his own reasons.”

“Perhaps so he may gather men and attack our camp.”

“Perhaps. I am satisfied our attempt to parley is useless. If not for the dwarf’s absence today, I would pay whatever Akbash asks for water, take our filled vessels, and depart.” Aragorn squinted across the wavering flats. The desert heat swiftly waxed as the sun rose, making the treacherous air shimmer and form mirages of water on the sand. “I confess I would not have sought to make parley at all, had honor not demanded I sue for peace before making war to defend Gondor from easterling and southron raiders.”

“Honor is a troublesome burden for a ruler,” Legolas observed, wry. 

“Yes. I would not have brought us here, else. And I would not have brought all my most trusted friends and warriors, had I not suspected we might have to fight our way out.” He gave Legolas a crooked grin, and Legolas smiled a little in return. 

“Pay Akbash for water, then, and make stealthy preparations for us to leave. Now the search has begun, I will go into the desert myself,” Legolas stated in tones that would brook no disagreement. “I will follow the southrons into the southern quarter. The cloak of Lórien will conceal me against the dunes at need. I will see if they are searching as diligently as they claim.”

“Do not lose your way, my friend.” Aragorn laid a hand upon his shoulder. “I would not be deprived of both my closest allies at once.”

“I will return as soon as I may, and I will bring Gimli,” Legolas vowed. Leaping lightly off the wall, he set forth, drawing his hood over his head. 

*****

Legolas walked softly, keeping well behind the last laggard searchers. Their dun-colored robes and headdresses concealed them against the sand nearly as well as his own soft grey cloak, but his sharp eyes picked them out with ease. They did not execute the search pattern as he had directed. Aside from signaling to one another when dunes eclipsed their line of sight back to the oasis, they did not seem particularly interested in their task, keeping their eyes on their own feet more often than not.

Legolas crept up the side of a dune, frowning. There were more men in this small area than there ought to be. They should be spread thinner if they were to cover all the ground that was their share. 

He soon realized the men were avoiding a particular region where a long low ridge within easy view of the oasis showed no disturbed sand or footprints. They walked its length in the trough beside it, but none climbed to go over. If Gimli were lost behind that dune, he could not see the oasis unless he climbed. Perhaps he might be found there.

Curious, the elf made his way slowly toward the ridge, avoiding two patrolling scouts without difficulty. If he climbed, his silhouette against the sky would betray him; likewise, the disturbed sand showed his path. The latter could not be helped.

He followed the track of the most recent searcher’s progress until he arrived at a low point in the ridge, then diverged from the tracks, climbing on hands and knees through sliding sand until he reached the ridge top.

Below him, instead of the sloped descending face of a dune, Legolas was surprised to find a precipice. Stone cliffs, perhaps cut by some long-ago flood of water, formed a narrow canyon that dropped sharply into a flat wadi, completely invisible unless one looked from the top of the ridge. It soon broadened and shallowed, but the low river course wound far out into the desert, a well-hidden highway through which anyone might approach the oasis unseen. 

If Gimli had fallen over these cliffs, he might be lying injured at their foot, perhaps unconscious, unable to call out to a rescuer. Why had the southrons not spoken of them?

Casting a cautious glance over his shoulder, Legolas climbed down, clinging to handholds in the stones. It was not a difficult descent, and he soon stood in the bottom of the canyon on the wadi, studying the ground.

Tracks wandered everywhere, crossing and re-crossing, despite the searchers having avoided this place. In the shelter of the wadi, the scouring winds did not erode the prints of feet so quickly as above. In addition to tracks, Legolas could see the marks of tools where sand had been scraped up from the ground. Long, flat marks from wheels indicated it had been trundled away in barrows. He studied the earth intently. There were boot prints clearly made by men and smaller tracks as well, ones that might have been made by a dwarf. Gimli? But no, there were too many. It seemed dwarves had helped clear the drifting sand, keeping the canyon passable. 

Scowling, Legolas turned to explore the near end of the wadi, which wound away toward the east and stopped in a crack that might source a wet-weather spring, draining the desert when infrequent rains came. Near the terminus, a crude door had been cut in the stone.

Legolas pressed himself against the rock and went still as the door creaked and swung open, disgorging two men. They spoke, but he could not understand their tongue. One of them Legolas recognized as a searcher, a swerting he had dispatched himself less than an hour past. The man departed, walking down the wadi until he reached climbed a spot where the wall slanted instead of climbing vertically. He scrambled up the stone, then vanished. The other returned inside, closing the door behind him.

Legolas considered. He should return to Aragorn and warn him of this secret road to the oasis and of its inhabitants. But his heart said Gimli must be nearby. If the dwarf had stumbled upon this place, he would be within. Likely he was a prisoner.

Drawing one of his long silver knives, Legolas approached the door, pressing his ear to the rough wood and listening intently. He could hear a murmur and clatter, as of men breaking their fast on tin plates. Perhaps there would be a warden behind the door, or the men might be so careless they had left it unguarded.

To enter thus, armed and ready for battle, might start the conflict Aragorn feared. Legolas could not guess how many men or dwarves might be quartered inside, or with what weapons they were armed. 

He tilted his head, thinking. The wood of the door was dry as weathered bone, and he had flint and tinder in his pouch. A diversion might allow him to creep inside unseen.

It was the work of an instant to make a spark, which smoldered on the dry wood for a moment before catching. Legolas waited for the fire to be noticed, fanning the flames judiciously, then ducked back against a cleft in the stone when a shout finally erupted inside. 

A tall man kicked the door open, cursing. A stream of men and dwarves erupted, casting about for the source of the fire. They did not see Legolas, concealed as he was by his grey elven-cloak. Finding no adversary, they hastened to scoop up sand and douse the flames.

As they turned away in search of sand, Legolas seized his chance to slide through the open portal, glancing hastily at the rooms he passed. Two were bedrooms, each housing perhaps half a dozen occupants. Evidence of a meal, hastily abandoned, lay scattered on the floors. A third was apparently a storeroom, piled high with casks and barrels. They bore labels identifying their contents, and Legolas could see many had come from Gondor, perhaps stolen in raids on the borderlands. Silent as starlight, he crept past toward a solid door that lay at the end of the passage. It was not locked, and he slipped through it just as the men and dwarves began to re-enter the cave, the fire extinguished.

There was no light in the chamber. Legolas wished in vain for Gimli’s innate sense of his location underground. He could feel the rough stone of a wall on his left hand. Following it, he moved forward, cautiously feeling the ground ahead with his foot before he stepped. 

He soon found the back wall, along with a sturdy stone door that opened to the press of his fingertips. Beyond it, there seemed to be more corridor. After he had advanced for several dozen ells, he dared to pause and strike a light, kindling a small slip of parchment from his pouch. The flare of flame revealed a water-carved channel through the stone, its base hewed flat and widened, perhaps by the dwarves he had seen earlier. The passage was wide enough for three men to walk abreast and tall enough for a laden camel to pass. Stores and weapons lay piled along the right hand side of the walk.

Legolas’s jaw set with dismay. He could see no end, neither to the corridor nor to the supplies. 

He shook out the burning parchment and advanced, wondering where the corridor led. Soon he could see a dim, ruddy glow ahead. He slowed his progress, approaching the light with caution. His best guess suggested he was still slightly to the east of the oasis, but he had not traveled far enough to bypass it entirely. The cavern floor was rising, and soon the hall branched, a hand-hewn corridor leading to the west of the natural watercourse. After that the floor rose swiftly and the light was near at hand. Legolas could hear a murmur of rough voices: men.

He stopped well short of the light, peering through a portal into a chamber made of rough-hewn blocks. Dozens of troops were quartered inside. A rough stove sat in the center of the room, and upon it a huge kettle. Men served themselves with a ladle and sat down to eat, laughing and talking. They were mainly swertings, mingled with a handful of southrons. Against the rear wall he saw the looming shapes of half-trolls, a sight that tightened his fingers upon the hilt of his knife. A passage beyond them led upward and out, judging by the clear yellow light of the sun reflected against one wall. Legolas could see the shadow of a palm frond waving gently in the light. This place was beneath the oasis then; the men could emerge at any moment, prepared to fight.

King Akbash was well prepared for battle.

He made a rough count of the warriors and turned away. This news he must carry to Aragorn immediately, though his heart was heavy, for had not found Gimli. 

Legolas slipped back down to the entry and passed noiselessly between the two rooms where the men and dwarves sat, finishing their interrupted meal. The door lay on the sands without, scorched and blackened. Legolas leaped over it without a sound, then swarmed up the cliff wall, leaving the wadi behind. Lingering a moment ensure he would not be observed, he set his bitter disappointment aside. Descending, he passed through the searchers. One hand in his pocket, sadly fingering the priceless gemstone and mithril pendant he still carried in hopes Gimli would one day accept his suit, he made his way back to the oasis to warn Aragorn.


	9. Alamluk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which various searches unite to turn up an unexpected commodity.

A steady stream of men passed between the oasis and the camp, leading sledges drawn by donkeys. The sleds were laden with empty jars on the inward trip, and went out filled with water. All those who had not joined the search were busy with Aragorn’s preparations for departure.

Legolas forced himself to stroll as though he were not in haste, calling greetings to his companions. He found Aragorn supervising the loading of pack animals and sleds next to the cistern. Eomer and Faramir had gone out to the camp to supervise preparations there.

“King Elessar,” Legolas fixed him with an intent look. “I come to report on the results of our search."

Aragorn’s eyes flicked to the empty space beside Legolas, noting the dwarf’s continued absence, then back to Legolas’s face, marking the tension there. He handed away the manifest to one of the elves. “Mind the totals for me,” he said. “We are still owed a hundred jars, and this list of provisions as well.” He stepped near to Legolas. “Let us go and have some food while you report.” 

It was desirable to escape prying ears, so Legolas agreed, following Aragorn into their lodging. Once he had shut and latched the door, he recounted his adventure.

“The door to the troop barracks is concealed somewhere in this very compound,” he concluded. “At a word from Akbash, they will pour out and attack us. Taking us unawares, they believe.”

“Was there any sign of the dwarf in their compound? He might have stumbled into it by accident.”

“There were a few dwarves among the men, yet I saw no sign of Gimli.” Legolas hung his head, crestfallen. “Akbash’s men are less interested in finding him than in diverting us from the wadi. It is well concealed. Hundreds of men could be marching toward the oasis as we speak, to join their companions in waiting to spring the trap.”

“It will come soon. Akbash did not drive such a hard bargain as he might; perhaps he believes he can take what he wants when he attacks. Or it may be gold is not his objective. My death and that of my lieutenants is no doubt a more urgent goal.” Aragorn slapped his thighs, raising a cloud of dust. “Legolas, I will slow our preparations as much as I may without arousing suspicion, but we cannot afford to tarry here, waiting for our foe to muster further strength.”

Legolas rose, taking his meaning. “I will find Gimli before nightfall.”

“Make haste and do so.” Aragorn cast down his gaze. “Or we must depart without him.”

*****

Gimli would not have thought he was so weary, but after he had given up trying to free his wrists, he dozed in his barrel, waking when a squealing sound warned him the lid was being pried off.

He blinked up, finding one of the dwarves looking in. A female, her beard neatly trimmed but her face homely by any measure of such things, she peered at him, uncertain.

“You are king of the foreign dwarves,” she observed, and Gimli nodded. His throat was still dry.

“Will you give me water?” He must go carefully with this one. Her eyes showed none of the loathing he had heard from those who whispered of the elf, but she was not an ally. 

“I have brought water and food. A messenger has gone to tell Akbash of your capture. He will send for you soon, I judge.”

She did not offer to help Gimli out of the barrel, but reached in awkwardly and guided the stem of a water skin to his lips.

He drank, forcing himself to go slowly so as not to become sick. She did not rush him, waiting with patience as he let his stomach grow used to the liquid. Then she checked the binding on his wrists and fed him, putting bits of salt fish and dried dates into his mouth. 

He thought of biting her fingers, but it seemed better to eat all he could instead. He was famished.

She stared at him as he ate, looking as if he had broken out in spots. When Gimli was full he grunted thanks and turned aside from the next morsel, but she did not move immediately to re-seal the barrel.

“What is it like?” She whispered. He frowned up at her, not understanding, and she flushed.

“With an elf.” She hardly seemed able to breathe the word, bowing her head in shame.

Oh. It was Gimli’s turn to redden and to cast about for words. Her curiosity was a chink in his captors’ armor, one he might use work himself free, if he had time and luck. It was also a question he wanted with all his heart to avoid-- and yet, he also wanted to answer well. 

Gimli had always thought of the elf as fair, so fair his very beauty was a peril. When he was a small child, once his father had taken him to the forges and let him watch the smiths molding metal. He had wept at the wonder of it, demanding to put his hands into the pretty, glowing stuff to see if he could work it and shape it for himself. Loving Legolas was rather like that, he thought: the desire to bury oneself in a precious thing that was beautiful, but would surely burn beyond healing. But that only began to capture the heartbreak, none of the beauty, of Legolas.

“Think of spending years working for others, amidst men, following orders for harsh masters,” he said slowly. “One day you have the chance to leave it all and to work your own mine. It is not much, but it is yours and your family’s. You go into the shaft one day, tunneling. You hope to find a small gem or two, or perhaps if you are lucky, a good vein of ore so you can smelt iron. But when you strike, your pick sings. The stone falls away to reveal a thick lode of truesilver you had no idea was there, so beautiful it gleams like a star in the lantern-light, and its chime when struck lingers for a long time without fading. You know that with it, you will never want for anything again. It is everything: food and comfort and fine armor, a gem-set cradle for your babes, wealth and joy beyond your wildest dreams.” 

Gimli faltered. “And yet, that is dross. Such a comparison gives no flattery to the elf, for mithril is hard and heavy, but he is warm and sweet, and where you must mine for mithril and refine it, he gives himself willingly, and he is pure and true. The metal may chime, but he laughs and sings, and though it may shine, it has no eyes to look on you with love and joy radiant as sunlight in them.” And though it may buy sheets for your bed, it will not press its silky skin against you there and moan your name as it pleads for your touch, he thought without speaking. Though he knew she would have liked to hear more, that desire belonged only to himself, and he would not speak to any of it, save perhaps one.

He fell silent, unable to put more into words. They were crude things, not capable of grasping Legolas and rendering him faithfully for those who did not understand.

She looked down on him, and her eyes glistened. He had moved her despite his failure.

“It is said one of my great, great grandsires was an elf, and that is why many in my family have no beards,” she whispered. “It is also why my kin and I were outcast from Khazad-dûm and have men for masters.” She replaced the lid, but she did not drive it down fast. He felt a thud as she set something atop his barrel and went out.

*****

Legolas left Aragorn’s lodging at a trot, ignoring everyone around him. He must choose his course wisely, for there was no time to spare. 

He very nearly ran past the other occupants of the guest courtyard before their presence touched a chord in him and he stopped, nearly skidding on his heels. Several of the elves there had been sent to search, and should not yet have returned. 

“What news from the search?” Legolas demanded. “Has the King of Aglarond been found, then, that you sit here at ease in the shade, sipping wine?”

“I finished my sector and returned after finding it empty.” Randir, an elf known for his love of exploration and poking his nose into unknown places, was the best searcher among their number. If he had returned, there were no elves left looking. 

Legolas reined in his temper with a strong hand. “Then the dwarf is not found.”

“No, it seems the desert has swallowed him.” Randir had the good grace, at least, to set aside his palm wine and stand to speak. “Doubtless the Southrons were right; we will not find the dwarf.” He looked on Legolas with pity in his eyes, but not with grief. He laid his hand on Legolas’s shoulder. “Calm yourself, cousin. May I offer you wine? You are hot and weary.”

Legolas spoke words not often uttered among the eldar, and Randir drew back his hand, eyes wide with affront. Legolas regretted his outburst, but did not apologize for it. 

“The High King Elessar himself commanded this search, if my word is not enough for you. We will seek until nightfall, or until the dwarf is found.” Legolas drew a slow breath, forcing himself to calm. “I am sure Elessar would not care to count lazy searchers among his trusted allies. Nor would I.” Randir might not be troubled by the prospect of exile from Ithilien, but there were those here who would. “Seek the dwarf once more, with all speed and diligence. Gather our people and re-cover all the territory you may before nightfall, including that already searched by men. I will take the south quarter myself.”

He shifted his gaze, marking every elf who sat there at leisure, and they rose slowly under the warning fire in his eyes. “I will not brook negligence, be it born either of prejudice against the dwarves or of disgust at my choice of a mate,” Legolas spoke quietly. “King Gimli of Aglarond is our valued friend and ally, and I will have your loyalty in this, or I will send you back to serve my father in the Woodland Realm as soon as we pass beyond the desert, even if no elf remains with me in Ithilien.” 

“We will waste our time in searching, then.” A tall, dark-haired elf called Teveril rose, stretching easily. “But if he were there to find, he would already have been discovered.” She led the group out, leaving Legolas to fume.

The trouble of it was, she was right. Gimli should have been found long since. Legolas rubbed his dirty face. His heart told him the dwarf had stumbled across Akbash’s secret enclave. Why had Legolas not found him there already? Simple: in his need to warn Aragorn of treachery, his search had not been thorough.

His choice was made already. He had told his elves he would take the south quarter for himself, so he would return to the wadi and go back inside the delving. This time he would explore the passage he had not taken during his first visit. Perhaps the dwarf was held captive there.

Legolas paused long enough to dart back to his room, taking up Gimli’s axe and tucking it inside his own belt. Battle was brewing; his friend would need it.

*****

Gimli sat still, pondering the she-dwarf’s gift. Though he knew he could get out, his arms and legs were still tied. If he rocked the barrel and tipped it over, his captors might come to investigate the noise. He still should wait, maddening though it was, for a better opportunity.

He didn’t delay long before his wishes were granted. Noise erupted outside the storeroom, the sounds of many men in armor clattering down the corridor, some of them leading beasts.

Thanks be to Mahal. It would have to be enough.

Gimli began to rock himself back and forth in the barrel, leaning heavily against the side where it seemed weakest. The work was difficult, and he soon began to sweat, but each time he moved, the provisions stacked around his barrel shifted, giving him more room. Driven by desperation, he kicked harder. Soon his barrel tipped over and crashed to the floor. Gimli lay still, holding his breath, but the clatter outside continued unabated. No one came to see what had happened.

Swiftly he scrambled out, rising to his knees with difficulty. He could see nothing but the flicker of torchlight outside his door. He found nothing to cut his bonds. He did find some of his effects, loosely bundled in his cloak and lying on the floor. He caught the knot atop the bundle in his teeth, determined to take them with him.

After several failures, he managed to get to his feet and was able to hop to the door, still trussed like a goose for roasting. 

At last the procession passed. Gimli let them go, biding his time. When the corridor outside had been still for a count of twenty, he eased his head out. No one remained in the corridor, only torches and animal droppings. 

He could escape the tunnels, but he would not be able to climb out of the canyon in his bonds. He would easily be trapped again. Instead, he decided to follow the procession. If he were lucky, he would gain the opportunity to free himself. He also might find out what trouble was brewing.

Hopping awkwardly along, he braced himself against one wall of the corridor. The sturdy door he had seen earlier stood ajar, so he pushed it open, going in.

Finally his courage was rewarded. This storehouse was much larger, and it held weapons. Gimli sidled up to a halberd that lay propped against a suit of armor, backing to put his hands against the blade. After a few minutes, the severed strands of his bonds dropped away. Grimacing and rubbing his chafed wrists, Gimli hastily untied his feet. 

The bundle he carried between his teeth contained his helm and his belt, still with his belongings tucked inside their pouches. He strapped it on, feeling more himself with every passing moment.

Curiosity proved stronger than prudence, drawing him after the vanished column of men. He armed himself with a short-sword and shield, then plodded slowly up the corridor, wary of discovery. 

The men were oblivious, but they would not be for long. When messengers arrived to fetch him for Akbash, his absence would be discovered. He did not have much time.

Gimli hesitated at the branching corridors, but a noise from behind warned him. He darted aside, choosing the less-used natural waterway. The floor had not been smoothed so well here, and as he progressed, he realized it was damp, so he chose his footing with care. He could smell pungent animal dung from somewhere nearby. From above, he could see a dim glow of daylight, and he followed it, squeezing between outcrops of stone.

The ground rose steeply, the rocks growing wet and slippery. He climbed, heedless of mud, until he emerged in a tiny chamber. It showed marks of unskilled stonecutting, and at one end stood a trough perched on a hinged trolley, channeling water from a natural spring in the hill’s heart. He approached it and squinted across its length. It had been directed toward a hole in the exterior wall, the source of the light he’d seen. 

Squinting through the hole, Gimli made out the cistern of the oasis, its white stone curves unmistakable. The trough was constructed so that it could be swung back and forth, either to the cistern or to a pipe that led back down the tunnel.

Gimli washed his hands in the flowing trough, then cupped them in the water and drank. The pipe would lead him to some other place, perhaps to the stables he’d smelled as he climbed. It might also lead to the men’s lodging. It would be wise to scout the place so he could carry an accurate report to Aragorn when he escaped. He might be able to make his way out through the stables. There should be far fewer men there than along the other passage.

Gimli followed the pipe downward again. It stretched along the watercourse just above his head, leading him to an alcove he had overlooked in the darkness. He stepped inside. His exploring fingers found an iron-shod wooden door. Behind it he could make out the faint bleating of goats. 

Gimli’s exploring fingers also found a crude lock. He might have laughed; it was a simple rocker lock, and a dwarven child could have opened it. He groped at his belt pouch and game out with a length of wire. Inserting it into the lock, he probed carefully, rewarded by a click as the rocker turned over. 

He eased the door open a small fraction at a time. The room beyond was dim and full of animals, definitely the source of the dung smell. He could see no attendants, so he opened the portal further, squeezing through with as little noise as he could contrive.

A goat raised its head, gazing at him mildly through one strange, rectangular pupil. Gimli froze, afraid it would bleat and reveal his presence. What would Legolas do? No doubt he would speak to it in goat-language and fondle its ears, or some such elvish nonsense. It would doubtless purr at the elf like a kitten.

“Hello, goat.” 

Gimli’s whisper seemed to penetrate far beyond his intention, but it interested the goat, which turned its head toward him to look at him with both uncanny eyes. Gimli slowly extended his hand, making the goat’s ears flicker: one forward, one back. He knew when a horse backed its ears, that was a warning, but no one had ever taught him goat-lore. Still, he paused and waited until the far ear flicked forward again, then ran his fingertips slowly along the goat’s muzzle. It tossed its head but did not bleat—or worse, scream. It drooled and mouthed at his sleeve instead. 

Gimli rolled his eyes toward the heavens. “Blasted elves,” he muttered to himself. He pushed his luck no further, remaining still while the goat nosed him to see if any part of his armor was good to eat. The thing must like the scent of salt fish.

Gimli forgot the goat as his eyes rested on the near wall of the chamber. A man hung there in manacles, head down, thin as a scarecrow. A prisoner. Was he dead? Gimli frowned, taking a step toward the hanging man. He did not appear to be decomposing. Perhaps he was still alive.

Sure enough, the man’s eyes opened as he drew near, fixing on him with dawning comprehension. 

Gimli lifted his finger to his lips, gesturing for silence, and stepped forward, reaching to touch one of the chains that held the man’s ankles. This lock was somewhat more difficult than the one on the door, but he thought he could pick it. The ones that held the man’s wrists were worse. They were well out of the dwarf’s reach, high enough to hold the man’s feet half an ell above the floor.

Gimli cast about, looking for something to use as a stool, and spied a fodder trough for camels leaning against the rear wall. He carried it over and upended it, then scrambled atop. He attacked a lock with his bit of wire, sweating and biting his lip until the tumblers turned. 

The captive swung down, biting back a soft cry. His feet touched the floor and Gimli was glad to see he could stand with the support of the wall. He climbed down and moved the trough, attacking the second wristlet. It gave him a bit more trouble, but finally both the man’s hands were loose. Then Gimli could work on his ankles at leisure.

No longer perched atop a shaky wooden feed trough, he made swift work of the last two locks and the prisoner stood free at last, still leaning against the wall.

The man whispered words in the Southron tongue, then seeing that Gimli did not understand, he tried again in broken Khuzdul. “I thank you.”

“You are welcome.” Gimli responded, then tried Westron. “What is your name?”

“You are a westerner.” He was far better at the Westron language than at Khuzdul. “I am Alamluk, rightful ruler of Katam.”

“Gimli, son of Gloin, King of Aglarond.” Gimli bowed. “At your service.” He considered Alamluk. “Can you walk?”

“I think so. But I will need water.”

“That can be provided.” Glazed pottery jars stood against the wall near where the trough had rested, and Gimli helped him over to them. After the man had drunk, Gimli handed over the remainder of the dried dates he had bought on his first day in the oasis. Alamluk chewed gratefully. Already he seemed to have more strength, and held himself with pride despite his ragged loincloth.

“What is the best way out?” Gimli asked him. “I came from the watercourse.”

Alamluk frowned. “That is the least-guarded way, though it leaves us in the desert with no food, water, or shelter. There are gates there,” he pointed to the opposite wall. “They lead into the oasis. But they are guarded, and if we go through them, we will be taken straight to Akbash.”

Gimli frowned, weighing their alternatives. He could make a disturbance if captured, enough to alert Legolas and Aragorn to investigate what was amiss.

“I think we should risk the gates. I have powerful friends in the oasis who will be looking for me. If there is a disturbance, they will come to my aid.”

“I need a weapon.” Alamluk was stronger now that the circulation had returned to his limbs, and could stand unaided.

“There is a storehouse not far below where weapons may be found.”

“Let us go and take one, then, to aid in making our disturbance.”

Gimli led the way, first tidying the evidence of their activity in hopes anyone who came to tend the beasts might not notice the absence of the onetime prisoner. He hoped their errand might be so swift and secret it would go unnoticed.

Alamluk kept his hands on Gimli’s shoulders for guidance as they crept down the watercourse until they found the cache of weapons and armor. They hastily garbed himself by feel, taking a pair of curved scimitars and strapping on leather mail. Gimli helped fasten the stuff on him in the dark, but he felt uneasy. His skin crawled and the back of his neck tickled, as if they were being watched. 

There was a breath of foreign air in the stuffy passage. If not for the stench of salt fish and dung, Gimli thought he might learn more. He took a step away from Alamluk, nostrils flared, scowling into the dark. He had his flint and tinder in his pouch; perhaps he should strike a light. 

A hand fell over Gimli’s mouth, firm and strong, pulling him back against a tall body. In the split second between capture and explosion into violent defense, he recognized the scent of his captor and went limp with relief. 

“Legolas!” The elf’s palm muffled his words, but he could hear Alamluk whirl, scimitars scraping as he drew them from their sheaths.

“No! It is a friend.” He spoke hastily as Legolas withdrew his restraining arms and stood back, resting his hands on Gimli’s shoulders. “Where have you been all this while, elf? I had to escape from a barrel and rescue this man on my own!”

“Searching for you. A barrel, you say? I thought some of them might be dwarf-sized, but I assumed you could escape such a prison easily and had no need of me,” Legolas responded in jest, his voice warm with relief. “Who is this man?”

“I am Alamluk, rightful ruler of Katam. Are you friend or foe to the usurper Akbash?”

“Soon to be foe, I think.” Legolas did not release Gimli’s shoulders, standing firm against his back. “Our group plans to depart the oasis this night, but believe we will not be allowed to depart in peace.”

“You are the western embassy, with the King of Gondor in the vanguard,” Alamluk guessed. “Akbash arrived a fortnight before you. He wished me to take him as my warlord and make war on Gondor without listening to parley. He imprisoned me for torture when I refused his plans.”

“Let us not stand here flapping our jaws.” Gimli shifted, uneasy despite the elf’s warm touch. “There are enemies about, and Aragorn should know at once of our new ally.”

“Yes,” Legolas agreed. Still he did not release Gimli. His hand ghosted up to caress the dwarf’s cheek, one thumb sliding along the rim of Gimli’s ear so tenderly it made him shiver. 

“There is an exit to the oasis above. Not where the men camp, but another. Alamluk says it will be guarded.”

“The guards will have to be well-armed to withstand us.” Legolas’s hands finally lifted and a rustling ensued. “Your axe, my friend. Though perhaps you believe you have no need for it, since you left it behind you!”

Gimli’s hands closed with relief around the familiar haft, settling into the grooves worn in leather of his own braiding. 

“I do not know whether to bless you for your foresight or curse you for your insolence, elf.” Or to kiss you for seeking until you found me, his heart whispered. But the time for kissing must wait.

They went forth together, returning to the stable, where Gimli’s goat eyed them to see if they had brought food. Sure enough, Legolas scratched its ears and it made no sound as he stepped forward. The elf passed through the beasts, whispering to them, and they stayed at rest, allowing the little company to pass without giving alarm.

“Annoying, is he not?” Gimli remarked to Alamluk. “I had to let the noisy things eat half my clothing before I could enter this room. Yet even the camels will not spit at him.” Legolas only laughed.

“You must be good friends to jest so easily, but without rancor.”

“Aye,” Gimli answered the Southron ruler, but they drew near the door, so there was no more time for pleasant talk. He readied his axe, standing behind the elf at the gates. He could hear voices from without: the normal sounds of the oasis. Boys laughed and shouted, women murmured as they passed, and chickens clucked as they foraged among the avenues. 

“Ready?” Legolas breathed, gathering them with a glance. He kicked the gate open with his boot.

They charged out, taking the guards by surprise. Men stared at them, mouths open.

They were only a dozen ells from their own lodging, emerging from gates set into the stone next to the king’s palace. 

“Aragorn!” Legolas gave a shout, and Gimli echoed him. “Men of the west, elves and dwarves! The King of Aglarond is found!” 

Their group erupted swiftly from the dwelling, fewer than Gimli would have liked. Most of the party was still dealing with provisions or were out in the desert searching. But Aragorn was among those who appeared, his eyes wide.

“Legolas! Gimli!” He took in their state and the guards scrabbling at burst latch of the opened gates, then swiftly drew Anduril. “What has happened here? To me, all of you.”

The troops gathered at his command, forming a bristling perimeter of blades about their leaders. Aragorn eyed Alamluk. “Who is this?”

“I am Alamluk, rightful King of Katam. Akbash is an usurper from the east.” Alamluk scowled at the Swerting guardsmen, who abandoned the gate and fled toward the entry to the king’s palace. “Most of the men of this place will follow me, but such as those will not.”

“Ah.” Aragorn gave a curt nod. “Let us pursue the proper courtesies later, then.” He glanced toward the courtyard. “They will bring Akbash with reinforcements. We must join our kinsmen. Gather such of your men as you may? We will help you fight the usurper, but I suspect he has grown his forces since conquering Katam.” 

“Give me that horn.” Alamluk reached to a soldier’s belt and lifted it, blowing a tocsin of one note, then two, then one more. “My men will muster to my call.”

“And mine to this.” Aragorn took the horn and gave the call of Gondor. “Now we should make haste to join our allies.”

As they hurried from the courtyard past the cistern, a third horn-call arose from the distance in answer, and a fourth close at hand.

“That is Faramir. But I fear the other is Akbash,” Aragorn said.

“His troops are quartered just there,” Alamluk warned, pointing as wide doors flung outward and bellowing warriors poured through the palace wall, scimitars and spears flashing. 

“Just like old times,” Gimli grunted. “Only this time victory will be easy!”

Akbash was not Sauron, but Aragorn’s embassy was far smaller than the combined armies of men, dwarves, and elves who had faced the Dark Lord. Their group was already cut off from Faramir, who raised the standard of the White Tree in the desert and fought toward his embattled king, laying siege to the closing gates in the oasis wall. 

They were cut off from Alamluk’s forces too, the loyal men of Katam, who now began to muster an assault on the Swerting forces from the southeastern side. 

“We must fight through to join my troops,” Alamluk panted. He was still weak from his time in captivity, and his arms were slow as he swung his sword.

“Stay between us,” Aragorn ordered, swinging Anduril and swiping the head off a half-troll. “You are not well enough to fight unassisted.”

Together the three companions covered Alamluk as they carved a swath through the Swertings to reach the loyal men of Katam. Legolas fought with his white knives, a dervish of terror. Gimli stayed near the elf and below his reach, hamstringing men and hewing knees, bringing down many a warrior with the blade of his axe then using the poll to ensure they would not rise again to trouble the group. At last they reached the Southrons, and after that it was easier. The Swertings had few outposts at the gate or the walls. They were swiftly overrun by Faramir. He led the main host of men, dwarves, and elves as they joined the fray, driving the Swertings back into their barracks.

“To me, my kinsmen!” When it was clear the battle was won, Legolas summoned his elves. “Go to the south. You will find a canyon hidden there that issues from a tunnel below the palace. Take your bows and pick off any who seek to flee.”

“A moment, elf!” Gimli tugged at his cloak. “There are dwarves among the Swertings. One of them did a kindness to me. Spare them if you can; take them prisoner.” He addressed the elves himself, blustering the command. They looked to Legolas, then to one another, but nodded before they departed at a trot. 

“There is no sign of Akbash.” Aragorn swiped his sweat-soaked hair from his face. “I fear he has run away, seeing his plans have gone awry.”

“We will lead our troops after him in force later, then.” Gimli rapped the haft of his axe on the stones. “He is a threat that will not subside so easily as this, I think.”

“I will aid your forces with all the men and water I may,” Alamluk vowed. “I owe a great debt to Gondor for restoring my kingdom.”

He and Aragorn shook hands there before the cistern as their forces pursued the last of the Swertings to ground, sealing a pact of peace between Gondor and the men of the south.


	10. Steam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone enjoys a Turkish bath.

In the aftermath of battle, much remained to be done. Aragorn spent the night and half the next day in tending the wounded, while Legolas oversaw the hunt for Akbash, who had indeed vanished without a trace. 

Gimli took charge of the prisoners, of whom there were many. The swertings were of little concern to him except those who must be healed of their hurts. They would be bound over to Akbash for justice. The dwarves, though, and those few of Alamluk’s men who had turned traitor must be tried. He was given that duty.

The dwarf-female who had helped Gimli stepped before him on the second day, her eyes downcast. Gimli looked on her and on her companions, who hung back and did not meet his gaze.

“All dwarves are to be set free to go where they wish,” Gimli decreed. “They raised no hand against me or in battle, and I judge they are guilt-free in building and maintaining the tunnels to the oasis.” He rose and stepped forward. “But for you. To you I would say more. What is your name?”

“Anke.” She glanced aside to her comrades, worry on her plain features.

“You showed great kindness in feeding me.” Gimli spoke no word of her role in his escape, not before her friends and kin. “To you, Anke, I offer this: return with me to Aglarond, and I shall grant you a place in our delvings there. You will have your own lodging, your choice of work, and a place to pursue your calling. You will have the same grant any of the dwarves who followed me there received, with the chance to earn more according to the value of your labors.”

Tears welled in her eyes again, but instead of shedding them, she dropped to one knee before Gimli and swore fealty, joining the Embassy of Gondor. He ordered the armorers to outfit her with the best that might swiftly be remade to suit her stature and instructed his lieutenants to see to her comfort when they departed.

That left little to be managed save re-provisioning their group and preparing for the outward journey. When Aragorn announced his renewed intent to depart, Alamluk was generous but wary.

“It is the time of the simoom in this land, so you must be prepared should it come again while you are abroad. None should wander in the storm.” He gave Gimli a cordial look. The dwarf huffed, a little embarrassed. “Such ramblings are not likely to prove so fortuitous a second time.” 

“I shall see to it he does not wander,” Aragorn said, his tone so bland it gave warning to Gimli, who ground his teeth, anticipating what was to come. “The elves return tonight. Legolas will be given charge of him, and will keep him close at hand!”

“That should suit them both.” Alamluk grinned, but perceiving Gimli’s discomfort, he did not press further. “For now, let us celebrate our friendship. We will feast and drink, then you may use the baths within my palace. I have ordered them prepared so you may be refreshed when you leave.”

Aragorn bowed deeply. “We thank you, and hope to return your courtesy should you travel to Gondor.”

The feasting was long and varied, with many dishes that pleased Gimli, including curried goat, honeyed dates, and strong ale. When it was done, Alamluk escorted his guests to the baths. The structure made Gimli blink. Used to washing in a wooden tub or an icy stream, he stood stunned and stared at the lavish pools and tiled floors that lay before him, copper boilers warmed by glowing braziers of smokeless coal that also heated bowls of rounded stones. Steam rose into the air in wisps.

He stepped forward, already planning additions to his compound in Aglarond. Why had he not thought of this before? Such a place could be added on the level above the forges, to make efficient use of their heat. He could pare the floor smooth where it was low and hollow it where it was high, build up cistern walls, divert a portion of the Deeping Stream at need to fill the basins….

He unclad himself along with his comrades and suffered the attentions of an attendant, who laid him out on the smooth, hot tiles and scrubbed half the hide off him, then rubbed and pummeled him so hard Gimli would have thought of reaching for his axe, had he not been reduced to a puddle of jelly upon the floor. Someone poured dippers of water on the heated stones, and steam arose in clouds. 

He shut his eyes and soaked up the heat, feeling sweat pour off him. Finally the attendant finished with him, but he did not move, all but asleep upon the heated tile. He heard his companions go to the pools, exclaiming at their temperature: some were warm, some hot, others tepid. They chose according to their liking, and their conversations echoed dimly in the chamber as he drowsed alone, content to rest where he was.

By and by he heard splashes as his companions rose and departed, but he did not wish to move. Not just yet. 

“ _Mae govannen, mellon nîn_.” Aragorn’s voice reached him softly at last. “It is late, and we are departing to rest. Enjoy the baths.” His tone smiled.

No answer was to be heard, but even to Gimli’s dreaming mind, none was needed. There were few King Elessar would greet so familiarly and in Sindarin, and only one of them might be expected here.

Gimli roused himself, lifting his lids to behold the elf standing at the doorway, surveying the baths. At length Legolas stepped aside and spoke to the attendant by the door. Once more his voice did not reach Gimli, but the attendant moved swiftly, gathering his fellows. All but one went out, walking single file, their bare feet slapping on the damp tile. The single remaining attendant helped the elf remove his tunic.

Gimli closed his eyes and lay with hammering heart as the attendant stripped and bathed the elf and massaged him on the floor in an alcove across the room. The pool between them shielded the sight from his eyes; steam hovered thick in the air. But he could hear the sounds of flesh on flesh, and the small grunts the elf made as he was tended.

Then the attendant made a final round of the room. As he went, he poured a dipper of water onto the pot of stones suspended above each brazier. The hiss was loud in the silence. Legolas spoke no word, merely waiting for the man to depart. The thump of the door echoed loudly in the empty chamber, and droplets of water fell from the ceiling, splashing in the waiting pools. Those were the only sounds that remained.

Then the elf moved. Gimli heard him stride forth and enter the water, gentle ripples and splashes heralding his approach. He opened his eyes again and waited as the vague silhouette approached him, slowly becoming more visible through the steam. He drew a deep, shaky breath, but did not stir further.

Legolas was more beautiful unclad than he had dreamed. He was well-muscled, but not after the manner of dwarves. His muscles lay sleek, nicely visible under his skin, and did not bulge, rippling gently as he moved. There was not a spare ounce of flesh on him, and he had no hair on his chest. Submerged to the waist, he walked forward slowly, then stopped where the pool was deepest and sank, tipping his head back. His hair made a pale swirl on the water. Then he rose, rivulets streaming off him, his hair sleek against his back.

He came forward again, the water rippling before his belly. He did not hurry, letting Gimli gaze his fill. Then he sank forward and swam, hands parting the water gracefully. He vanished behind the rim of the pool, and Gimli held his breath with anticipation.

The elf rose at last, his eyes dark, his expression soft, and he beheld Gimli over the edge, only an ell or two away, his unbound hair streaming over his shoulders. 

“ _Echuiole, melethron_. Wake up.”

“I think I am awake,” Gimli answered him. “And yet, I am not sure if this is a dream.”

“I could pinch you,” Legolas offered, smiling, yet he did not touch Gimli. 

Gimli knew then the elf was afraid his offer would not be welcome, not after it had been declined so often. Perhaps it would not. 

Gimli slid himself toward the elf and reached up, tangling a dripping blond lock between his fingers. "You have offered yourself to me more than once on this journey. Yet I have refused, for your heart and your bed are very different offers, and your intent is not always as clear as you think." He hesitated. "Was the Lady Arwen's courage so much more than yours that she would plight her troth to a mortal lover while you dared not?"

"Once it was so." Legolas's eyes kindled to flame. "Now I have found my strength."

"Do not toy with me or lead me falsely." Gimli tightened his grip. "I will not forgive such a thing twice."

"What do you wish of this?" Legolas made no effort to free himself. "Of me?"

"That we give our hearts to one another wholly, freely, and without reluctance or shame despite the disapproval of our two peoples. That we acknowledge one another openly. That you will not let fear turn you from me, even when I grow old and infirm. That we lead our peoples as we must, but that we meet when we may, to share such of our time as we may spare away from duty." Gimli's pulse thundered so hard he would have feared it, if not for the dizzying swirl of hope that made him short of breath.

"And that I lie only with you?"

"And I with you, until I have passed." Gimli's breath husked in his chest. "After that, you will be free."

"I do not wish to be.” Legolas tilted his head, and his smile turned wry. “My father will not be pleased."

"Nor will mine." Gimli did not release him. "It is not their decision to make. Do you pledge these things?"

"I do. Gladly." Legolas's eyes shone. “I have carried my hopes with me,” he said softly, opening his hand for the first time. The brilliant ruby gem, set in truesilver, caught the firelight and seemed to pulse like a heart. “When I came to Aglarond I brought this for you, a bride-price if you will, in earnest of my feeling. Will you take it now?”

Gimli’s heart rose into his throat as he recognized the value of the gift, threatening to choke away his words. "I need no gemstone to tempt my pledge, no matter how rare. I would accept you if you owned nothing but the clothes upon your back. I give you my heart, Elf." Heedless of decorum, Gimli hauled Legolas down and kissed him roughly. Then he gentled, forcing himself to calm. 

"We started this in haste, without care. I would not make that mistake again."

Legolas smiled. “Do you call a decade between trysts hasty?”

Gimli was aware of growing discomfort; he lay upon parts the elf was rousing for other, better uses. 

“I would suggest we use every moment we may.” The elf heaved himself up onto the edge of the pool, water cascading from his flesh. He was in the same condition as Gimli, his body roused, his cock a delicate, stiff arch curving from his loins back toward his belly. It was longer than Gimli’s, but slender.

Legolas let Gimli look, and at the same time, his eyes roved over what he could see. 

Gimli shivered, but not from cold. He longed to touch the beauty he beheld, and he sensed the elf was waiting for him to move first. And yet, he hesitated. Here was the forge-fire and the molten metal; it awaited only the touch of his hand to see what might be wrought. 

If the elf could overcome his fear of having a lover who must die, then surely Gimli could overcome his own fear of heartbreak. He stretched out his hand and set his fingers on the elf’s chest, feeling she strong beat of his heart. His palm settled on wet, velvety skin and slid in a slow curve toward the elf’s nipple.

Legolas gasped; his chest rose and fell and his lashes closed. His nipple pebbled eagerly and he quivered all over, then stilled. Gimli watched as his mouth opened and his tongue touched his lower lip. 

Legolas was so beautiful he seemed unreal, all long pale limbs, elegant curves and angles, a fine statue carved from pale marble by a master craftsman. The steam curled around him, making him seem a wraith or spirit, an illusion who would vanish at any moment. Yet he moved, quickening to Gimli’s touch, lifting himself to press into it. 

Gimli rolled so he could reach more, and Legolas’s lashes lifted. The elf studied him, and his tongue darted forth to lick his lips again, reflections from the fires gleaming in his eyes. 

“Not too disappointed, I trust?” 

By way of answer Legolas advanced on all fours, pressing Gimli to his back on the warm tile, climbing to sit astride him. Gimli let himself be moved, smiling up as the elf settled to a seat atop his belly and reached to one side, coming back with a phial that held scented oil.

“Not at all.” He bent to kiss Gimli, breathing softly against his face for a moment before brushing their lips together. “You are beautiful and precious to me.”

Gimli opened willingly and met his kiss. It lasted, long and slow, waxing and waning from sweet to fierce and back again. He resisted the temptation to tumble the elf beneath him, not wanting to spill the oil. It would come in useful.

When Legolas raised his head, his breath was short. He slid back, squirming slightly to tantalize, and worked his way down Gimli’s chest, exploring and kissing among the dwarf’s thatch of ruddy hair. He located a nipple and suckled there, making Gimli gasp and buck, nearly unseating him. 

Giving Gimli a wicked smile, Legolas continued his downward journey, nuzzling and kissing the fierce, eager shaft he found waiting, running his tongue around the sturdy crown. Gimli tried not to thrust into his mouth, mostly succeeding, but he was so overwhelmed with sensation his restless hips could not be still.

“Next time we will do this,” Legolas withdrew after far too short a time and promised him, pressing his cheek to Gimli’s cock and nuzzling it fondly. “But tonight, I will ride.” 

He lifted himself away and took up the phial, pouring oil into his palm and stroking Gimli’s cock with it. Gimli bit his lip, trying not to become too overwrought from the slick, gliding touch. He wanted this to last, so he could give the elf the good ride he wanted. 

Legolas gave him a sidelong look, laughter in his eyes, clearly reading the strain on Gimli’s face. He took his hand away and prepared himself while Gimli watched. 

The elf rode his own fingers, his eyes shut, his lips parted. Gimli nearly moaned at Legolas’s expression of bliss, forcing himself to wait until the elf was ready. His part of the pleasant work would come soon.

Legolas set the phial aside, moving with slow deliberation, and knelt over Gimli again, reaching to steady the dwarf’s shaft. He sank down on it slowly, his eyes fixed on Gimli’s. 

Gimli stayed very still, not wanting to hurt him. He reached to catch Legolas’s hands, helping the elf brace himself as he sank down, a wrinkle forming in his perfect forehead as he struggled to accept Gimli’s girth. By the time he sat astride, his skin flush with Gimli’s, he was panting, a fresh mist of sweat gleaming on his perfect skin.

Gimli remained still, forcing himself to keep his patience. The elf would let him know when he was ready for more. His body held Gimli in a tight clasp, slowly easing. He loosed Gimli’s hands, brushing a lock of hair from his face, breathing hard.

Gimli reached to stroke his waist and back, gentling Legolas with slow caresses until his eyes opened again and he smiled down, a little shaky.

Carefully Gimli pressed upward, lifting his hips ever so slightly. He watched Legolas exhale, and judged his expression was one of pleasure.

He rocked under the elf, slow and steady, increasing the force of his thrusts gradually. He had worked many long years at smithcraft and cutting stone; none could practice patience better than a dwarf. Legolas responded, pleasure blossoming on his face anew with each gentle motion, until he began lifting himself and meeting Gimli’s thrusts with downward force of his own, his chin tipping back, his lips parted in soft cries, his clear eyes gone hazy with bliss. 

Gimli laughed for joy and surged upward, filling his hands with the elf’s smooth skin, learning his body and guiding his motion. He reached to cradle the elf’s slender cock, stroking it in time with his thrusting. He kept his pace steady and clung to control by a hairsbreadth, forcing himself not to find release, not yet, not until--

Legolas cried out, fists clenching, and a great shudder went through him, his cock pulsing in Gimli’s hand, pearly fluid spattering onto Gimli’s belly. 

Gimli succumbed with a roar, fingers sinking deep in the elf’s slippery flesh as he thrust deep and spent himself, arching both of them off the floor. 

He subsided, gasping for breath, and Legolas dismounted, then melted onto him, nuzzling into his neck and twining his arms around Gimli as though he would never let go again. Legolas’s mouth sought for his and Gimli kissed him, overwhelmed with tenderness and awe.

The elf was his, then, this unimaginably beautiful creature. Legolas had given Gimli heart, soul, and body, leaving himself more vulnerable than Gimli had ever seen him, passionate and vibrant, giving sights and sensations so sweet they were almost painful in their intensity. It made his eyes sting to think of it.

He tasted salt and realized Legolas was weeping, whispering endearments to him in elvish between kisses, his skin feverish with heat.

“Come, elf.” Gimli murmured, his voice husky with wear and tenderness. “We should cool ourselves in one of the small pools, and I will clean us both. Then, if you are weary, I will dress you and take you to our bed.”

“I am not so feeble as all that.” Legolas smiled against his skin. “But if you will let me do the same for you when you grow old and infirm, then I would enjoy it.” 

“That is a fine bargain,” Gimli chuckled and, heaving the elf over his shoulder, carried him to the coolest bath and tossed him in.

It was long indeed before they sought their bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Mae govannen, mellon nîn_ : Well met, my friend  
>  _Echuiole, melethryn_ : Wake up, beloved


	11. Homestretch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey home involves both painful partings and heartfelt promises.

The embassy departed Katam the next day amidst a flurry of well-wishes, Southron servants waving them through the gate with palm fronds. Alamluk rode with them until the oasis vanished behind a finger of dune, then halted with his retainers to wave them on. 

“I will send messengers to Gondor to confirm our treaty,” he said. “You are always welcome here, King Elessar. So are your retainers, the dwarf and elf, the King of Rohan, and all these others.” He bowed low. He and Aragorn shared water, then passed the cup until everyone had drunk.

In spite of this, Gimli could not feel regret as they marched away. He glanced to Legolas, who had chosen to walk rather than to ride. Aragorn followed his gaze and chuckled to himself.

“Legolas, you have run far these past days seeking Akbash,” the king said, benevolent. Would you not rather ride? I am sure a camel would bear you.”

“I will walk,” Legolas said, serene, but he bridled when Aragorn laughed aloud. Gimli could not stifle his own chuckle, and the elf scowled with mock anger, glaring at the both of them. 

“We shall see how gracefully you sit a saddle when it is your turn,” Legolas threatened Gimli, then could not repress his own satisfied smirk as he gazed forward, his sharp eyes always searching. 

“I see a smudge on the horizon,” he commented.

Gimli’s hand went to his axe, but Aragorn did not seem worried “He has come then, if a day later than wanted.”

“Who has come?” Gimli did not want to fight Akbash again so soon, not with such a small company.

“Imrahil, leading the men of Rohan. I told them they should follow us in a few days. My heart misgave me, and I thought we would require their aid. But I miscalculated my timing. Your discovery forced Akbash to show his hand early.”

“This is convenient,” Gimli brightened. “Imrahil and I have a wager to settle, and this way, we will not delay the company in waiting by the desert as we settle it.”

Gimli was as good as his word. The next day dawned with he and Imrahil walking unshaded before the troops, having agreed to do so without food or water to speed the contest. The Prince of Dol Amroth conceded Gimli his victory at mid-afternoon on the second day, his feet blistered and his lips cracking, his tongue so swollen he could scarcely speak. 

Legolas scolded Gimli as he loaded the exhausted dwarf onto a donkey. “You are stubborn, and would have walked until you fell. You were too harsh on him, let alone yourself. No more wagers of this kind, if you love me.” He touched Gimli’s overheated brow fondly, then bathed his temples, giving him sips of water. 

He would not let Gimli walk for two days after, and by then they were at the verge of the desert, scrubby trees and bushes attesting to water beneath the sandy soil. 

The embassy parted soon afterward, with the main body of the group crossing the Anduin with Imrahil. The men parted on the west bank of the Pelargir, where Aragorn and Eomer turned north to return to Minas Tirith. Anke and the dwarves rode with them, wishing to visit Gondor. For his part, Gimli pledged to meet her there and take her on to Aglarond so he might fulfill his promise.

Legolas and Gimli remained with the elves on the east bank, turning north to journey through Ithilien together. They bore teasing words in parting from Aragorn and their friends, but were sad to see them go. 

The elves with whom they traveled soon outdistanced Legolas and Gimli, preferring to march through the night rather than to sit around the campfire. Though they had pretended not to notice when Legolas slipped an arm about Gimli, or when Gimli laid his hand on the elf’s knee, both dwarf and elf knew the others did not like to see it. 

“They will grow used to us, but it will take time. ” Legolas shrugged and did not seem over troubled by his kinsmen’s disapproval.

The two remaining were not disposed to hurry, traveling at a slow walk. Legolas pointed out places of especial beauty to Gimli, while Gimli in turn showed him the bones of the country and explained how they had been shaped in the forges of Mahal. Together they discovered how the land had been carved and folded by the river and by the rising of the Ephel Duath, a grey shadow looming in the east. “A haze of green has begun to show on the upper foothills of the bleak mountains,” Legolas pointed out. “It is the first sign that even the barren wastes of Mordor may one day be healed.”

The leisurely days suited Gimli well. Journeying alone with Legolas reminded him of the time they had spent among the Fellowship, camping together in the wild. He coupled often with the elf, the two of them loving whenever and wherever they pleased, then slept in safety while Legolas kept watch, singing softly beneath the sky.

It was a source of grief to Gimli when they finally arrived in the north of Ithilien and came at last to the trees where Legolas made his hall.

“Stay with me for the winter, then I shall come to you in summer,” Legolas invited, his eyes sad with the foreknowledge of parting.

“I must go west and take Anke to Aglarond. I have promised.” He lifted the elf’s hand to his lips, kissing Legolas’s palm. “But come to me this winter, then I will return and summer with you the season after.”

“I will,” Legolas vowed and held him close through the night, not caring who among the elves took note and whispered among themselves.


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli receives a letter.

So the years passed, Legolas and Gimli dividing the time between their kingdoms. They took joy in journeying abroad throughout Middle Earth and answering the call of Aragorn while he lived and ruled in Minas Tirith.

A time came at length when Gimli’s beard grew grey and he no longer traveled so easily as he once had. Then he rode to Ithilien in a wagon, or more often Legolas came to visit him. If the elf’s dwindling kin missed his presence in Ithilien, he did not speak of it.

One winter’s day Legolas arrived in Aglarond, unexpected. Thrasi ushered him in to his foster father’s hall, where Gimli sat in state.

“Legolas!” He stood and came down to meet the elf, leaning upon his stick, for his feet were no longer as steady upon the stair as they once had been. Legolas removed his crown to clasp Gimli tightly. He held him, pressing a kiss against his cheek.

“I have word from beyond the sundering sea.” He lowered his voice. “From the Lady of the Wood.”

Gimli blinked at him, then turned to look at the crystal case that held her hair, displayed in an alcove near his throne, lit so it shone. 

“Then come take food with me and we will discuss your news.” His heart was heavy of a sudden; perhaps the elves would have Legolas come away with them now, even before Gimli passed. There were few of them left in Gondor, and even fewer still in lands to the west. Their dwindling settlements lingered on the shores of the sea, where they built tall grey ships and sailed away, just as Gimli had learned Gandalf and Galadriel went to the west with Frodo long ago.

Perhaps Legolas had only been awaiting Gimli’s death so he might be free to go with them. He had often seen the elf tilt his head back, watching the gulls wheel and mew over Anduin. Legolas was quiet then, and sometimes he did not speak for long hours.

The elf turned to Gimli when they were alone, though, and his eyes were shining. “The Lady has sent this message to me,” Legolas showed Gimli the scroll he held. It unrolled easily, displaying golden ink on soft parchment. 

“I have learned much of the Sindarin tongue, but even I cannot read Quenya,” Gimli chided him gently. 

“It is a poem,” Legolas explained. “Listen, and I will render it as best I may:

 _Legolas Greenleaf, in Undying Lands_  
_No longer need thou fear the hourglass sands._  
_Build a grey ship and set forth on the sea,_  
_Forsake not the dwarf. Bring brave Gimli with thee!”_

Gimli took the scroll in shaking hands, his vision blurring with tears. “Such a boon. I am unworthy. I should never have dared ask such!”

“Would you forsake Middle Earth and come with me upon the Straight Road?” Legolas went to one knee before him, clasping Gimli’s hands in his own, the scroll crumpled unheeded between them. “Thrasi is now a dwarf full-grown, well-suited to lead his kin and rule Aglarond. All our companions have passed. Say you will come, Gimli!” His voice shook, earnest, his eyes dimmed with his fear Gimli might refuse.

“Legolas.” Gimli stroked his callused fingers through the elf’s soft hair. “Would you have an old dwarf hung about your neck, an anchor to bind you forever?”

“Speak not so!” Anger flared in Legolas’s eyes. “I would have you forever, yes. Gladly and by choice, beyond all hope or expectation, the greatest gift I could name!”

“Then go and build our ship,” Gimli whispered. “When spring comes, Legolas, I will ride to Ithilien for the last time. Together we will sail down the Anduin. We will leave Middle Earth to the young and to men, and see our comrades of old again beyond all hope. I shall kneel before the Lady Galadriel before aught else when we land, even if Mahal himself awaits us. I would thank her for teaching me the truth of elves, and for setting me on the path to all greatest joys I have ever known!”

Legolas smiled and nodded, tears of gladness in his eyes. “So shall it be.”

**Author's Note:**

> The story was begun in the year 2001 and progressed to the oasis, where it languished, near-fatally wounded by John Rhys-Davies and Peter Jackson’s concept of Gimli the Boorish Buffoon, and lay lifeless for many years until a chance viewing of the third installment of The Hobbit movie accidentally resuscitated it by suggesting a solution to a prominent narrative problem. 
> 
> Apologies are in order to J. R. R. Tolkien.


End file.
